Fool Bright
by PengyChan
Summary: He shouldn't be there, there is a mistake, there must be. He's not this phantom everyone talks about, there is no phantom at all – there's him, Bobby Fulbright; there never was anyone else. - I AM BOBBY FULBRIGHT.-
1. Mask Off

_A/N: This is a What If set a couple of years after the game. The whole premise is that, while Athena and Blackquill were both cleared of the crimes they were accused of in Turnabout for Tomorrow and the Phantom's likely guilt was established, no one realized the Phantom was currently disguised as Bobby Fulbright.  
This resulted with the Phantom keeping on the mask to try getting back the psych profile - but, over time, his lack of self made him unable to tell "the Phantom" and "Bobby Fulbright" apart, leading him to eventually believe he truly WAS Bobby Fulbright._

_**The cover picture is by Nyappykid**. There is a link to the full picture and the artist's blog on my profile._

* * *

No one has come to see him in a long time.

Bobby doesn't know quite how long – they took his watch among other things – but it must be hours. Hours of silence and confusion and despair, locked in a prison cell without even knowing why.

Bobby Fulbright – he's Bobby Fulbright, he _is_, what everyone is saying is impossible it's just _impossible_ – shuts his eyes tighter, still huddled in the corner of the cell as he tries to make himself as small as he can. He shouldn't be there, there is a mistake, there _must_ be. He's not this phantom everyone talks about, there is no phantom at all – there's him, Bobby Fulbright; there never was anyone else.

_I am Bobby Fulbright_.

He tried to tell them as much, he really tried, but each attempt only made Prosecutor Blackquill angrier and angrier, even more so after he slashed at him and his face… his _face_…!

Detective Bobby Fulbright lets out a low keening noise at the memory and buries his face–  
_no this is not his face, it cannot be, his face was torn from him and he doesn't know how that was possible  
_–in his hands. They took his gloves, too, exposing a scar on the back of his hand he cannot explain. Every time he tries to remember how that could happen, his head hurts almost as much as his chest. It doesn't make sense, nothing makes sense. But he knows one thing, and he clings to it with all he has.

He is Bobby Fulbright. He knows he is. And yet Prosecutor Blackquill doesn't believe him.

That's the worst though, the one that tears at him and won't let him sleep – Prosecutor Blackquill _doesn't believe him._

* * *

"Enough with this charade! You shall not escape me now! _Confess at once, lest you wish me to cut you down here and now_!"

Bobby takes a few steps back and flatten his back against the wall, his confusion starting to turn into something else, something that seems to squeeze his lungs and makes his heart hammer in his chest. He's seen Prosecutor Blackquill angry before, of course – more than once in the years they have worked together, before and after his acquittal – but he's never seen him like _this_, eyes blazing and teeth bared in a snarl.

And, most of all, such anger has never before been turned against him. His fury, along with the silent presence of several grim-looking officers behind him – and he knows them, he knows all of them, but they won't talk back to him and simply stare at him, their lips pulled into tight lines – is enough to make him entirely discard the initial thought of an odd, morbid joke.

"P-prosecutor?" Bobby finds himself babbling, back still pressed against the wall. "I don't understand—"

"Silence!" Blackquill snaps, causing him to shut his mouth. "I'll ask you once more – who _are_ you?"

That senseless question, again! What answer is he expecting? There is only one answer, one Blackquill should know as well as he does.

"I'm Detective Bobby Fulbright! I don't understand what— ah!"

Bobby cries out in surprise at Blackquill's sudden movement and raises his hands to shield himself, but he's not fast enough. Blackquill slashes at him, slashes at his _face_, and hits the target. Some of the officers gasp and Bobby screams, reaching up for the gash on his face and waits for pain to hit him.

It never does.

Surprise sinks in along with the realization everyone else has suddenly fallen silent; even Blackquill has ceased throwing accusations at him and is only staring without saying anything, his eyes twin pools of darkness. Bobby blinks and pulls his hand away, looking down at it.

There is no blood on his glove.

He opens his mouth to speak, to ask what's going on, but he has no time to: the next moment Blackquill is on him, one of his hands grasping his hair. Before Bobby can even realize what he's doing he _pulls_, and… and…

For a few moments Bobby can't speak, can't even think. He can only stare at his face – his _face_! – stares back at him from Blackquill's hand, a heap of skin straight out of a nightmare, with empty sockets and no muscle nor bones to support it, a deep gash across the forehead.

The, slowly, Bobby raises a hand to his face, to whatever he has left as a face. He doesn't touch it, however: he can't bring himself to. "W-what's the meaning… I… Prosecutor Blackquill…?" he calls out, looking up, and then stills: Blackquill's gaze chills him to the bone.

"_Silence_," he hisses, disgust plain on his face. He lets his face – his _face!_ – fall on the floor and turns to the officers who are staring at Bobby in shocked silence, mouths agape. "Arrest this man. I want him out of my sight," he says coldly, not even looking at him, and Fulbright finds himself too stunned to say anything. This isn't happening, this cannot be happening, Prosecutor Blackquill can't possibly mean it, he can't possibly believe him a criminal!

"No," he finally manages as several officers seize him, too stunned to even think of trying to break free. "No, this isn't… this can't… Prosecutor Blackquill!" he calls out, his voice high and desperate as he watches Blackquill turning to leave.

_Please no don't turn away please please I believed in you I always believed in you now please believe me please please please…!_

"No! Prosecutor Blackquill! PROS—"

Blackquill doesn't look back at him for a moment, and the door slams shut on his desperate cry.

* * *

He's snapped from the memory by the sound of steps approaching, steps he's come to know as well as his own. Blackquill's.

"Prosecutor Blackquill!" Bobby calls out, relief making him feel suddenly lighter, and he immediately stands. It's alright, he thinks, whatever misunderstanding there has been must have been cleared up and Blackquill is here to let him out. He won't apologize, of course, he never does, but by now he must have realized that he was wrong, that he's not and never was the phantom he's been chasing.

He's Bobby Fulbright.

Blackquill stops before his cell, and Bobby smiles at him. "In justice we—"

"_Silence_."

That one word, along with Blackquill's glare, is enough to make his relief disappear. "Prosecutor—" Bobby starts, only to trail off when Blackquill grabs the bars of his cell to stare at him with flaming eyes. It feels all the world like_Blackquill_ is the caged one once again – the bars keeping him from lashing out and kill.

"Never let that word past your lips again," he snarls. "Don't you _dare_ further insult a man you killed."

"But I-I didn't kill anyone!" Bobby blurts out, unable to entirely believe Blackquill would think a such thing of him. He, who can't even bring himself to let candy wrapping fall on the ground!

Blackquill throws back his head and gives a cold laugh. "Metis Cykes. Clay Terran. Bobby Fulbright. You have the blood of at least three people on your hands, and you still dare to deny it?"

"NO! It can't be, it makes no sense!" Bobby cries out, grasping the bars as well in desperation. "I am Bobby Fulbright! I'm here! I'm alive! This cannot be—" he starts, only to trail off with a yelp when Blackquill's hand shots through the bars to grasp the front of his shirt. His gaze is positively murderous.

"You _still_ dare to lie? Do you think we're all blind?"

"No! I'm not— I wouldn't— I cannot lie! I'm Bobby Fulbright! You _must_ believe me! I believed in you, I—"

"BELIEVE YOU?" Blackquill roars, and the hand still grasping his shirt is the only thing that keeps Bobby from stepping back. "You know no shame, do you? The mask is _off_, Phantom! I tore it right off your wretched head, and you still deny it?"

_That wasn't a mask_, Bobby thinks in panic. _That was my face, my _face_, what have you _done_ to my face?_

"My face," he rasps, a shaking hand reaching up to touch his not-face. He doesn't know what is there now, and he doesn't want to know, because whatever it is it's_not his face_. "I… I need it back. Where is it? Where is my face?"

Blackquill scoffs, and abruptly legs go of him to take something from his pocket and hold it up. "This," he hisses. "_This_ is your face."

There is a moment of utter confusion in which Bobby cannot tell what the small round object Blackquill is holding up is, nor he realizes who the unknown man staring straight back at him is. Then it clicks – the object is a small mirror Blackquill sometimes uses to call Taka back when he's flying especially high, and the face staring back at him is… it's…

"NO!"

Blackquill lets out a surprised noise when Bobby's hand shoots out through the bars and hits the mirror, causing it to fall from his hand. The mirror shatters as soon as it hits the ground, but Bobby doesn't even take notice: all he can do is scream, hands on his face – _not his this is not his face this is wrong this is so wrong_ – and nails digging in his skin as he tries to tear this _thing_ off.

"No! Not my face! _Not my face_!"

"What are you doing? Stop! Stop this very instant!"

But Bobby doesn't stop, he cannot stop, he needs to get that thing off, he needs his face back. And now there _is_ blood alright, blood on his nails and fingertips, for_this_ face bleeds while the other has not. But he feels no pain, he feels nothing but mindless terror that drives him to try again and again to tear this face off, this unknown face that does not, cannot belong to him.

_I'm Bobby Fulbright! I'm Bobby Fulbright!_

And then someone is opening the cell and stepping in, several hands grasping his arms and holding him down, and he tries to fight, half-blinded by panic and tears. Something prickles him behind his neck and suddenly everything is getting dark and his limbs and eyelids feel heavy, so heavy.

Bobby's head drops on the cold stone floor, his thoughts so muddled he can't even realize what is going on anymore. Only one last thought makes it back to his mind before nothingness claims him, one question whose answer, he's terrified to realize, he doesn't know.

_Who am I?_


	2. Black Locks

"Wait, is that a _straightjacket_?"

Hardly surprised by the shock in Athena's voice, Blackquill hums. "He'd keep trying to tear his wretched face to ribbons the moment he could; shackles could not prevent that. The straightjacket was forced on him for his own sake," he says, the last words leaving an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

For a few moments Athena says nothing, gaze fixed on the screen. A camera was installed in his cell so that he could be observed every moment of the day: if he was bent on visiting harm upon himself, which Blackquill wouldn't be at all opposed to, a straightjacket may not be enough to keep him from doing as much. But he's doing nothing now: he's sitting on the floor, back against the wall and eyes shut as though sleeping. His face is a ruin of bloody lines and scratches, and there are open sores on his head from where pulled at his hair hard enough to damage his scalp, as though trying to pull a mask over his head.

"So… he kept trying to take off his face like it was a mask, too?" Athena finally speaks quietly. "You said he kept asking to have his face back when you took away Detective Fulbright's, and that he kept denying being anyone else than Detective Fulbright even once the mask was off and he couldn't possibly keep the act up. And if he only broke down when he looked in a mirror, that would seem to indicate he really believed—"

"It is only an act," Blackquill mutters, entirely unmoved by the sight. He knows where this is going, and he knows that Athena has a point – but there is a part of him, cold and unyielding as steel, that refuses to admit as much. He refuses to see the phantom he's been chasing – the being who took Metis' life and lied to his face for three years – as anything less than a monster. "The psych profile clearly says he has almost no emotional fluctuation. He's faking all of it. He—"

"_Almost_ no emotion fluctuation doesn't mean none at all," Athena cuts him off, finally turning away from the screen. "When he was… when I spoke with Fulbright, there were emotions. I heard the voice of his heart as clearly as I hear yours now."

"It goes to show how well he can fake emotions."

"That's true, but to hurt himself to _that_ extent only to keep up an impossible act?" she says, briefly glancing at the screen. Even from up the ceiling, the camera shows all too well the open sores on his head. They are being medicated, sure, but it's obvious that the damage to the tissue was bad enough to keep hair from ever growing back there. "It would take a will of iron."

"Which he obviously possesses. He clearly means to escape his due punishment by faking insanity."

Athena looks at him, and for a moment she looks almost saddened. "You don't really believe that."

"Of course I—"

"It was not a question. You don't. I can tell."

Blackquill stares back at her, and he finds himself tearing his gaze away. He looks back at the pathetic figure on the screen. "… He was armed when we confronted him," Blackquill finally says. "There were weapons hidden in his watch, as it was found, but most of all he had Bobby Fulbright's gun. He could have used them to attempt an escape, and perhaps he may have succeeded. Instead, he didn't even try to defend himself. He kept denying being an impostor even once the mask was off and there was no room for lies anymore. It… made little sense."

"Unless he truly _believed_ he was Bobby Fulbright."

"… I suppose," Blackquill admits, then, "I understand you're bent on finding out. You can gain a better insight to that monster's heart, if there is any to be found in his chest, than anyone else. I know what this means to you, and I shall not attempt to stop you."

Athena gives a weak smile. "Thank you," she says, and turns to the guard who's been standing close to them through most of the conversation. "I'm ready to go. Take me there."

* * *

Seen up close, the Phantom is an even worse sight than he was on screen.

He's sitting in a corner, the straitjacket keeping him from tearing more gashes into his face, and is keeping his eyes tightly shut. He is not sleeping, clearly, as Athena can feel him reacting to the sound of her steps approaching. All she can hear coming from his heart are utter confusion and fear, which grows as she comes closer and finally stops before his cell. His eyes stay clenched shut, and he seems to be attempting to make himself as small as he possibly can.

It is the saddest thing she ever laid her eyes on, and when she reaches for the anger and grudge that should fill her she finds neither.

"… Detective Fulbright?"

That causes the Phantom to recoil and open his eyes. They are a pale blue, and look very different from Fulbright's brown eyes. They are oddly empty, too – but they seem to lighten up some when resting on her, and Athena hears a pang of something else among the overwhelming fear and confusion that causes her to freeze for a moment.

The Phantom is _glad_ to see her.

"Miss Cykes. In… in justice we trust," he rasps, startling her out of her confusion. While weakened and terribly tired, the voice coming out of the man's cracked lips is unmistakably that of Bobby Fulbright.

_Bobby Fulbright is glad to see me_.

The thought chills her to the bone, and it takes her some effort to return the pale shadow of a smile the Phantom is giving her. "… Hey. In justice we trust," she says, and sits on the floor. The cell's bars are still between them, but at least she's not towering over him anymore. Last thing she wants is triggering another episode like the ones he already suffered, and staying at the same eye level might help him feeling less lost.

Or so she hopes.

"Is your head hurting?" she asks. His face looks like it must hurt terribly as well, but she's not going to move the focus of the conversation on his face, not yet.

"No, I… I'll be fine," Bobby Fulbright's voice says. "Have… have you seen prosecutor Blackquill?"

Athena bites her lower lip, unable to ignore the sudden surge of pain as he speaks Simon's name. She says nothing about it, through. "Yes. He's… concerned," she adds, listening hard for a reaction. And there is one alright, a sudden peak of _happiness_ that for a brief moment overrides his fear. The smile he gives looks awfully like Detective Fulbright's own, and for a horrible moment she almost expects to hear the same laugh.

"Is he?" the Phantom asks, and Athena nods.

"Sure."

"Where is he?"

_Oh, man._

"He's uh… he's kinda busy. Paperwork and all that stuff," she says. The Phantom's smile – Fulbright's smile, _he truly thinks he is Bobby Fulbright_ – fades, much like the moment of happiness in his heart.

"He doesn't want to see me, does he?" he asks, and there is no mistaking the pain that's coming from him. That Blackquill wouldn't want to see him is plainly_hurting_ him, as it would hurt Fulbright.

He's not Fulbright, but he believes he is… and, unless he's masterfully deceiving her, he's retaining his _personality_ as well.

_Then what is the difference?_

"It's not that he doesn't _want_ to," Athena says, and in a way it is true – Simon would very much like to talk to him one on one, but she really doubt the meeting would be pleasant as the Phantom seems to imagine it. "It's just… what happened is, uh… weird, isn't it?"

"What happened," the Phantom repeats, and he shivers. "I… I don't know what happened, but everyone keeps repeating I'm a criminal, and… even Prosecutor Blackquill thinks… he didn't believe me, he doesn't _believe_ me, he said… my face, he took my _face_…!"

The Phantom shudders again and shifts, and Athena realizes only a moment later that he's uselessly trying to rid himself of the straightjacket, features contorted in anguish and breath coming in short gasps. He's terrified, and he looks everything like a trapped animal ready to chew off his leg to escape a snare… or to claw away his own face, looking for his lost one.

"I'm Bobby Fulbright," he chokes out. "I _am_ Bobby Fulbright, I… my face, my_face_…!"

The moment realization sinks in, Athena knows she must snap him out of it before he can lapse into another episode and hurt himself. She stands, grasping the bars with both hands, and calls out.

"_Detective Fulbright!"_

With a sharp intake of breath, the Phantom goes very still. He's on his knees now, still tense as though on the verge of snapping, but he's no longer trying to struggle his way out of the straightjacket. He stares at her with widened eyes, the only thing that truly looks alive on a devastated, corpse-like face.

Her mother's murderer, Athena thinks. She has often tried to imagine what facing him would be like, especially after her trial – when she and Simon had both been acquitted but the identity of the spy who had murdered her mother and Clay Terran had stayed a mystery – but nothing she imagined was like_this_.

Then again, she would have never imagined he was so _close_ the whole time, either, living with an identity he now seemed unable to shed.

_At what point did he forget himself?_

She forces herself to smile. "Please, stay calm. We'll figure this out, I promise. In justice we trust, right?"

There is another moment of stillness, then the Phantom releases a long breath and sits back, slumping against the wall. "In justice we trust," he murmurs, and he sounds so _tired_, but at least she was able to avoid a crisis. He looks up at her again. "Prosecutor Blackquill doesn't believe me," he says, his voice shaking some, and she can tell that's what pains him the most. "But I don't know how to explain… how to explain _this_. I don't _know_."

Athena nods. "Sure. I believe you," she says, and that's true. At this point she's certain this is not an act, that the spy Simon has chased for so long truly _is _trapped in the role of Bobby Fulbright.

As soon as her words sink in, Bobby Fulbright's wide smile is back on that devastated face. It looks all _wrong_, like it doesn't belong there, and the way it's pulling his still fresh scratches _must_ hurt… but it's still better than watching him on the verge of breaking down.

"Thank you! In justice we trust," he says, and for a moment the fear is gone, although the confusion is lingering. "May I have my… my face back?"

_Tell him what he wants to hear. Keep him calm_.

"I'll talk to Simon about it. I'm sure we'll manage to get it back to you," she says, forcing her smile to stay in place. "Just trust me, okay? And, uh, justice, I guess."

"Hahaha! I sure do," the Phantom says, and it's truly unsettling how he just sounds everything like Bobby Fulbright. He's still confused, she can tell, but not as scared as before; the prospect of having the mask –_ his face _– back seems to have worked wonders on his state of mind, although he seems to sober up a moment later. "… Is prosecutor Blackquill alright?"

"Huh? Well, he's a bit… yeah, he's fine. Why do you ask?"

"I was wondering how he's going to work on his cases on his own," the Phantom says, and frowns. "Well, I guess the precinct sent someone else to help him out, right?"

Oh, right. "Yes. Detective Gumshoe is assisting him," Athena says. That seems to reassure him a great deal, for he gives that horribly familiar smile again.

"Oh, good! Dick's going to do a great job until I can get back to work," he says.

_You're never getting back to work. You're not who you think you are_.

But he doesn't realize that, and he's so delusional he's refusing to accept the plain fact he cannot possibly _be_ Bobby Fulbright. Athena supposes he will have to, sooner or later; perhaps his memory will return.

She doesn't truly want to imagine what kind of breakdown he may have when _that_ happens.

* * *

"What complete _balderdash_!"

"Look, it's only a _mask_. I bet they analyzed every inch of it at the labs. There is no harm in letting him have it back."

"_Tch_. He has no right to don it. I won't allow him to further mock a man he murdered by stealing his face once again."

"We're not even sure it was _him_ to murder Detective Fulbright. He doesn't remember-"

"I'm certain he remembers everything all too well," Blackquill cuts her off, unable to keep anger out of his voice as he paces back and forth in his office. His gaze falls on the katana in the glass case - the very same one that took his mentor's life, the same one _he_ used to take her life. To think he's been right here in this office countless times in the two years since he's left prison, donning Fulbright's goofy smile and face, claiming he would help him catch his phantom...!

There is a sigh, then Athena speaks quietly. "You said you were going to trust my judgment. Can you at least try to _listen_ to me?"

That causes Blackquill to pause and, while fury still boils hot and bitter in his chest, he forces himself to breathe out and calm himself. "... I do apologize. Of course your input is much valued. I would not have asked for it otherwise."

Athena nods. "Right. I listened to him very closely - I listened to his heart, and I really don't think he's lying. Until you took that mask from him, he really believed himself to be Bobby Fulbright. Even now, he's deluding himself into thinking as much. He didn't ask for a mask back - he asked for his _face_."

"What you're saying, then, is that he has no memory of being the Phantom."

"Yes. That's exactly it. If I had to take a guess, I'd say he had very little personality of his own to begin with," she adds. "That would be consistent with the limited emotional spectrum. If we assume he lived different lives all along for his assignments, his sense of self may have faded over time, and... well, he's been living Detective Fulbright's life for so long, three years at least. He made his personality his _own_."

"Can you entirely rule out the possibility he's been tricking you?"

Athena shakes her head. "Not entirely, as things are. But I know of a way to be certain - a cross test, if you will."

Blackquill frowns. "Are you referring to Justice's own queer abilities?" he asks. The attorney's abilities still reek of cheating to him in a courtroom, but if they can help reveal whether or not this wretched phantom is lying, then using it wouldn't sit ill with him.

Still, Athena shakes his head once more. "No, not that. I'm referring to the Magatama. Remember what I told you about the Psyche Locks, right?"

He does: Athena explained to him that locks appear over a person's heart when they're trying to hide something and are confronted with a question about it. "Yes," he says slowly. "So you believe we might learn whether or not he's lying by using the Magatama on him."

"Yup. If he really can't tell he's not Bobby Fulbright - if he really doesn't remember - then there should be no locks at all, or..." she pauses and hesitates. "Well, either that, or there could be black locks."

"Black locks?"

"Yes. They're usually red, but sometimes they're black. Mr. Wright saw them over my own heart when I was about to be tried," she adds, and shivers a little. "He told me that they can mean either that the person bearing them would protect their secret with their life, _or_ that they're not even aware they hold it. The latter was the case with me - the memory of confronting the Phantom and wounding him was there, but it was locked away and I was not aware of it."

Blackquill frowns. That doesn't sound very useful in their current predicament. "That means that, should we see the black locks, we wouldn't know whether he's unaware of or all too aware and ready to take it to his grave."

"We can get around it if ask the right questions," Athena says, and grins. "You of all people should know that there are many ways to ask the same question _and_ struck different chords. We do that all the time with cross-examination. Let me come with you when you question him tomorrow. I'll ask Mr. Wright to lend me the Magatama. Between that, Widget and some good old psychology, I'm sure we'll get the answer we need. How does that sound?"

His lips curl in a smirk almost against his own will. "I can't see how I may possibly hope to make you change your mind once it's set," he says. "Very well. We'll do this together."

"Great! Only... make sure he gets the mask back before tomorrow, okay?" she says. "Even if it's torn, he really needs it. And... I know I'm asking a lot, but I think it would be best if you referred to him as Fulbright."

The mere thought sits ill with him, and he can't keep himself from scowling. "He has no more right to that name than he has a right to that face."

"I know, but it's the only name he responds to," Athena says. "Simon, please. We can't let him have another mental breakdown - _or_ give him the excuse to stage one if it's all pretense," she adds quickly as soon as Blackquill opens his mouth, clearly having guessed his objection before he could voice it.

With a sigh, Blackquill relents. "... Very well. I'll let him have the mask and refer to that _beast_ as Fool Bright," he says. It wouldn't be yet another lack of respect to Bobby Fulbright, he thinks - _Fool Bright_ is how he's always called the man he believed to be the detective, but now it's clear he never truly had a chance to meet the man. It is a monicker he never bestowed upon the real Bobby Fulbright; somehow, thinking that makes the prospect of using it for the Phantom more bearable and less of an insult.

Until that charade is over with, _Fool Bright _will have to do.

* * *

"Prosecutor Blackquill!"

The sheer relief he feels upon seeing prosecutor Blackquill walking in the interrogation room along with Cykes is something unlike anything else Bobby can recall feeling before. His reality has taken a frightening and confusing turn in the past few days, but now – with his face back where it belongs and prosecutor Blackquill finally willing to listen to him – he knows everything is going to be alright. Whatever has been going on, they're going to clear it up; of course prosecutor Blackquill would come around eventually – partners are supposed to trust each other, aren't they? Bobby is almost ashamed that he doubted, even for a moment, the he'd do something as unjust as turning his back on him.

"… Fool Bright," prosecutor Blackquill says quietly, sitting across the table.

"You look like you're doing a lot better," Cykes speak, sounding far more upbeat than Blackquill, and he returns her smile.

"I sure do! I should have known you wouldn't abandon me. In justice we trust!" he adds. The straightjacket keeps him from properly saluting as he says that, but he isn't bothered. That will be off soon, as soon as they have seen through this mess – and who better than prosecutor Blackquill and Miss Cykes to do it? "Oh, and I'm sorry this happened in the middle of a case! Did you win the trial?" he asks.

For a moment prosecutor Blackquill glares at him, but he recoils suddenly – it's as though someone just kicked him under the table, really, but that's ridiculous because he certainly didn't do a such thing and Cykes would have no reason to – and speaks.

"Yes. I did, despite Detective Gumshoe's utter incompetence," he mutters.

"Oh, good! One less criminal in the streets! In justice we—"

"Silence," Blackquill snaps. "We're not here to discuss closed cases. We're here because we have questions for you."

Something in Bobby's chest clenches, the relief starting to fade away. "Prosecutor Blackquill, I really have no idea… I don't know what's going on! You have to believe me!" he pleads.

For a moment Blackquill stares at him, eyes narrowed, then Cykes clears her throat and he recoils. "… I believe you," he finally says, although his grim expression doesn't change. "But we still believe you may be able to shed some light on this matter. We have a few questions for you. Simply answer at the best of your abilities and let us handle the rest."

The grip around his heart fades, and Bobby smiles again. "Sure thing! In justice we trust!"

"... Hmph. Let's get on with it," Blackquill mutters, and pulls something out of his pocket. It's something that gleams green, but it's held too tightly in his clenched fist of Bobby to get a good look at it.

"Got it," Cykes says, and in a matter of moments the Mood Matrix has been activated. She looks up and she seems to pick up his confusion, for she smiles. "It's just in case you misremember something. You've seen me using this a lot of times in the courtroom - it's to pick up anything you may not realize is there," she says. "I'm sure you'll be okay. Just answer the best you can. Ready?"

Bobby smiles back. It is alright, he thinks, they're going to prove his innocence and it's alright. "Ready!"

"Great," Cykes says, and glances at prosecutor Blackquill. "Guided ones first, okay?"

He doesn't tear his gaze from him. "Works for me."

She nods, and turns back to Bobby. "Okay. Your name is Bobby Fulbright, correct?"

"Yes."

"Your _full_ name is Robert Fulbright."

"Yes. But I don't really like it. I mean, it has the word _rob_ in it. It's not very justice, is it?"

That makes her laugh a bit. Blackquill expressions stays stony. "Good point there. You were born here in Los Angeles thirty-five years ago, right?"

"Yes."

"You are a police detective, aren't you?"

"Sure! I've got the badge and everything - oh, the badge! Who has it? The case needs to be polished every-"

"_Silence_," Blackquill cuts him off. Cykes says nothing for a few moments, and looks a little more intently at the Mood Matrix's screen before turning to Blackquill.

"Nothing. You?"

Prosecutor Blackquill glares down at the green object in his hand. "Nothing," he says somewhat grudgingly.

"... Nothing what?" Bobby asks, blinking in confusion. What _are_ they looking for?

Neither seems to have heard his question. Cykes draws in a deep breath.

"Okay. Let's try with the open ones."

_The open ones...?_

Blackquill speaks up before Bobby can voice his question. "Fool Bright. What is your name?"

Bobby blinks. "But I already replied-"

"You'll do it again. Tell me what your name is," Blackquill cuts him off. Despite the confusion, Bobby complies.

"My name is Bobby Fulbright," he says, and suddenly Blackquill flinches back, eyes widening, the grip on the green object tightening.

"Prosecutor Blackquill? Are you alright?" Bobby asks with a sudden pang of concern. Is he feeling ill? He looks pale, the color he regained after leaving prison draining from his face. "Prosecutor Black-!"

"Silence!" Blackquill snarls, and tears his gaze away from him to turn to Cykes. "I see them," he grits out. "Black, all five of them."

_All five of what?_

Cykes nods, and turns back to Bobby with a focused expression. "As I imagined," she mutters. "Where were you born, and when?"

"But I already-"

"Just answer again. Please."

"I was born in Los Angeles, in 1993. I don't understand-"

"What is your occupation?" Blackquill cuts him off, staring at him through narrowed eyes. The grip on the green object is so tight his knuckles are turning white.

"You already asked me-"

"I don't want another _yes_ or _no_," Blackquill snaps. "I want you to _state your occupation_."

"I... I'm a police detective. Prosecutor Blackquill, are you-" he trails off and winces when Prosecutor Blackquill suddenly stands, knocking off his chair in the process. He stares down at him with such fury that for a moment Bobby is sure he's going to strike him, and instinctively attempts to raise his arms to shield himself despite the straightjacket - then he turns away and strides out of the room without another word, letting the door slam shut behind him.

"Oh, man," Cykes groans, and Bobby finds himself looking at her in utter confusion.

"That... I... what was that about? Is prosecutor Blackquill alright?"

She looks up at him, then down at the Mood Matrix's screen, and all of a sudden she seems really saddened. "You really have no idea," she murmurs, and turns off the Mood Matrix with a sigh. "Simon will be fine. He's only unsettled."

"I don't understand," Bobby mutters, and his voice shakes a bit against his own will. Cykes hear that, she must, for she makes a clear effort to smile as she stands.

"Don't worry about it. We'll clear it all up," she says, but the device around her neck is now a dark blue, and over time he's understood it means that the emotion it picks up from its owner is sadness. "In justice we trust, right?"

Suddenly, Bobby is nowhere as optimistic as he felt that morning, after being given back his face. Still, he forces himself to smile. "In justice we trust," he says, but his voice sounds strained to his own ears.

_What is happening?_

* * *

"... It's just as I thought, then. He _really_ believes he's Bobby Fulbright."

"You said the black locks can also mean he's aware of the truth but willing to take it to his grave."

"But there were no locks _at all_ in the guided questions," Athena says, wishing that Simon could just stop pacing back and forth. He's starting to make her feel motion sick. "If he was knowingly lying, they would have appeared for those as well. Instead, they only showed up when we got past _yes _and _no _question and he had to give the the answer himself instead of just confirming what we said - and they were _black_. Simon, you can't ignore this. He really _is_ unaware he's the Phantom."

That finally gets Simon to stop pacing and draw in a deep breath. When he speaks again his voice is calmer, but she can tell his anger is barely in check.

"Well then. It seems I'll need to break that comfortable delusion of his if we wish to get anything out of him."

"He's already unstable. That could break him beyond repair. Those locks-"

"He murdered at least two people. Probably more. His fate is sealed, but I _shall_ have answers from him before I see him hanging for his crimes," Simon says darkly. "You shouldn't spare him a thought. That monster is not who he claims to be."

Athena sighs, unable to get rid of a sense of sadness. The whole situation is unbearably sad; she can't tell what's worse between the fact Detective Fulbright was dead all along and the fact the man they're dealing with is unable to separate his _own _self from that of the man he's been impersonating. "He's not who he _believes_ he is. That is different."

There is anger in Simon's heart, but she can tell there is something else - something that is not quite pain, but that goes beyond simple confusion. Betrayal, she supposes, and something else she cannot define. "It makes no difference. It's the same person who took your mother from us," he says, looking away from her.

"... Is he?" Athena finds herself asking. "He remembers nothing. He made Fulbright's personality, memories and beliefs his own. If that's not what makes a person, what _does_?"

Simon keeps his gaze fixed on the katana that took her mother's life, his frame tense. "None of it is real. It is the pathetic farce of a nobody."

"It _is_ real to him."

"Not for long," he says coldly, and she can tell that the conversation is over.


	3. The Truth

_A/N: Well. The delusion had to be broken at SOME point, right?_

* * *

It takes three days before anyone comes to see him again.

They took that straightjacket off him, if anything, although they put shackles around his wrists - they're so much heavier to bear than he imagined; how could prosecutor Blackquill stand this for so long? - and he's being watched around the clock. It's with no small amount of shock that he realizes the he's on suicide watch, and no one says a word to him when he asks for an explanation or to see prosecutor Blackquill. It's like they can't even hear him.

He's been trying to think, too, to figure out what may be possibly going on. He _is_Bobby Fulbright, no question about it… but whenever he tries to think of an explanation for whats happened - his face, why did his _face_ come off? He dares not even touch it now, for fear it will happen again - he draws a blank, and his head begins to hurt terribly. Each time, he has to give up. All he can do is trust in justice, trust prosecutor Blackquill, and _wait_.

And, sure enough, Blackquill eventually shows up.

"Fool Bright," he calls out, pausing before the cell. Although his expression is grim - as usual, really - being spoken to is a relief, and Bobby smiles, standing up and reaching to grasp the cell's bars.

"Prosecutor Blackquill! In justice we trust!" he exclaims. "Is everything cleared up? I'm itching to get back to work!"

Blackquill scowls, and gestures for someone to come forward. Two guards do, and what one of them is carrying is enough to make Bobby's smile fade, a sense of dread in his chest.

The straightjacket.

"Sir?" he calls out, looking back at Blackquill. "Why… There is no need for that. I won't lose it again, I promise, please don't–!"

"Silence," Blackquill snaps. "You do trust in your precious justice, don't you, Fool Bright?"

"I… yes, of course."

"Do you trust me to make justice as well?"

"Sure! You're my–"

"Then do as I say," Blackquill cuts him off before gesturing for the guards to get inside the cell. "It is for your own sake. Do not resist, and I promise you we'll both know the truth soon. You have nothing to fear from the truth, do you?"

Of course he has nothing to fear: he knows he's certainly not a criminal, after all, so he lets the officers take off his shackles and put the straightjacket on him without resisting. He has no reason to worry, none at all.

And yet, there is a gnawing feeling at the pit of his stomach that just won't leave him.

* * *

"Sit."

Blackquill doesn't expect any resistance, and in fact there is none. The Phantom - Fool Bright, he reminds himself, he'll keep referring to him as Fool Bright for just a little while longer - sits on the chair across the table, and only winces when the officer who's been escorting them proceed to strap his torso to the backrest with velcro strips.

Again, he doesn't resist, but he does look up at Blackquill. "Prosecutor…?" he calls out. Confusion is plain in his voice, and even without Athena's gift Blackquill can tell fear is starting to leak in. He knows that, as this continues, that fear is likely to turn into mindless terror and despair.

Until not too long ago, the thought would have made him smirk. Now it only makes him grimace.

_Fool. Fool Bright_.

"… Are you worried now?" Blackquill asks, sitting as well. The officer finishes strapping Fool Bright down and steps back, but he lingers behind him, waiting for an order that will come soon. Unaware of that, Fool Bright shakes his head.

"N-no."

Blackquill sighs. "Ironically enough, you're a terrible liar," he says, and nods at at the officer. The man nods back, and reaches down to grasp the hair of Bobby Fulbright's mask.

Fool Bright gives a yelp when it's torn off his head, exposing the face beneath. Pale as wax and still marred by scratches at various stages of healing, it looks nothing like Fulbright's own.

"No! NO!" the Phantom cries out, trying to stand and cover it. The straightjacket and the straps keep him from doing either thing, however, and the next moment he's hunching over as much as he can, lowering his head to keep that face hidden from sight. "My face! Prosecutor Blackquill, _please_! My face…!"

"This is not your face," Blackquill says harshly, holding out his hand to take the mask the officer is handing to him and gesturing for him to leave with a nod. As soon as the man is out, the two of them alone, he speaks again. "Fool Bright. Listen to me."

The _being_ before him lets out a keening noise, head still lowered, and Blackquill can see all too well how ravaged his scalp is from his previous attempts at tearing off a mask that's not a mask at all. "Prosecutor Blackquill…!"

"Faces don't just come off, Fool Bright. Even you must know as much. This is a_mask_," he adds, letting it drop on the table. The Phantom doesn't see it, as he's keeping his eyes shut, but he hears the sound of latex hitting the table, and winces. "It is not your true face."

Fool Bright shudders, shaking his head. "It cannot be" he chokes out. "I am Bobby Fulbright! I am!" he adds, and finally lifts his head to look at him. His features are contorted with anguish, and his voice - Fulbright's voice - has now a pleading quality to it. "I'm not lying! I'd _never_ lie to you! I thought you believed me…!"

For a few moments, Blackquill gazes at him in silence. Here it is, the cause of so much anguish - the murderer who took away Metis' life, Athena's childhood and seven years of his own life with the single thrust of a blade. The phantom who's haunted his nights and slowly turned into someone _else_, his own investigation partner - an act he's now trapped into. He is everything Fulbright would wish to erase from the world, and he's stuck with his personality and mindset.

_He remembers nothing. He made Fulbright's personality, memories and beliefs his own. If that's not what makes a person, what does?_

_He shall loathe the Phantom even more than I ever could._

"… I do believe you, Fool Bright," he finally speaks slowly. Somehow, speaking those words feels like the most difficult task of his life. "I know you're not lying."

The anguished expression on that torn face changes in a hopeful look that's almost painful to look at. The truth is going to break him, but the thought gives Blackquill no satisfaction, anger having long since turned into bitterness. It is clear now that the phantom he's been chasing, the murderer he loathes, is no more - slipped through his fingers like mist. What's left behind is a man incapable of murder who'll now have to watch everything he believes real being torn apart.

_I'll never give up on you, prosecutor Blackquill!_

_If only I could do the same for you, Fool Bright_.

"… Tell me one thing, Fool Bright. Do you _truly_ believe in justice?"

He immediately nods. "Of course! More than anything! But I don't understand… please, my _face_…!"

"Silence," Blackquill says, and pushes the mask off the table, onto the floor and out of the Phantom's sight. "Justice is an idea. People have to make it happen. So tell me, do you trust _me_ to deliver justice?"

The hopeful look fades entirely, leaving behind something that's not quite fear, but comes close enough. "Sir…?"

"Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth says that it is our duty to uncover the truth, horrible and painful as it may be," Blackquill says. "That is what I mean to do. I will tell you the truth, or at least the part of it I know. I need you to listen to me, Fool Bright, and I need you to trust me. Things are not the way you believe they are."

A long silence follows, and Blackquill can see realization dawning on the Phantom's face as he understand that the answers he's about to get are not the answers he hoped for. He swallows before he speaks again. "What… what is happening?" he asks, his voice shaking.

It is time, then.

Blackquill reaches for a folder on the table and opens it. In the years after his imprisonment, he thought of the moment when he'd finally force his phantom to face his crimes as a moment of triumph. He would have never imagined he'd do so with a heart like lead in his chest.

Fate truly can be crueler than anything a human mind can conceive.

When he pushes the folder slightly to the side, there are three photographs on the table, facing towards Fool Bright. One is a grisly sight, a blackened corpse resting on an autopsy table, burned beyond recognition. Another shows a still image from the security camera at the Space Center, the day of Metis Cykes' murder - that of a man fleeing the crime scene, a bandage on his right hand and a cap to hide his features. The third shows something else entirely: the fragment of the Moon Rock that escaped the explosion meant to destroy it.

As Fool Bright stares at the photographs Blackquill observes him closely for a sign of recognition, but there is none. When he looks up at him, question plain as day in those eyes that look nothing like Fulbright's, Blackquill knows he's going to have to explain everything.

"The picture on the left," Blackquill says slowly, "is that of a corpse that was found three years ago, and remained unidentified until recently - when Detective Skye of the forensics team realized someone had tampered with the police department's fingerprints database. Our team was able to recover lost data, which led to identification at long last. What you see here," he adds, fully knowing this is going to be a terrible blow, "is the body of Detective Bobby Fulbright."

The Phantom rears back as though physically struck, eyes widening, and he stares at Blackquill as though expecting him to laugh, or admit he's been jesting.

He does neither, and waits.

"That… this… this is not possible!" Fool Bright finally blurts out. "There is a mistake! There must be a mistake! I'm here, I'm _alive_, I…!"

"You are not Bobby Fulbright," Blackquill cuts him off. "That is why you were wearing a mask - but you forgot yourself. You came to believe in your act so deeply you can no longer part from it. You forgot that what you saw in the mirror was a mask, and not your own face. The face beneath it, the one you've tried to claw off - _that_ is your own. Bobby Fulbright is dead."

Most likely by your hand, he thinks, but he doesn't say as much. What he's telling him is hard enough to digest as it is; telling someone with the morality of Bobby Fulbright that he's a murderer as well as an impostor would be too much for him to bear. He'll have to reveal as much if he doesn't remember it first, he knows… but not yet.

One thing at time.

"No, I… No!" Fool Bright chokes out, desperately shaking his head. "No, no, _no_! It_cannot_ be! Prosecutor Blackquill–!"

"Fool Bright. Calm yourself and listen. I promised you the truth, did I not?" Blackquill says, keeping his voice even. He needs to be calm and he needs to say the right words in order to avoid another breakdown. Everything this man believes real is coming apart, but he trusts him, if anything, and Blackquill may be his only anchor to sanity now.

The Phantom is shaking like a leaf, and as Blackquill expected he _does_ cling to his words. "I don't know what's happening," he chokes out. "I don't know how this is _possible_."

"I'll tell you everything I know. I will not leave you alone to face what comes next. You have my word; can you trust my word?"

The man - _Fool Bright_ \- looks like he's about to start crying, an expression Blackquill has seen countless times on Fulbright's face but that looks so fundamentally wrong on this own. Still, the dreaded waterworks don't start: he draws in a shaky breath and nods.

"Of course I trust you. I… I was right last time, wasn't I?" he manages, and makes a rather sad attempt at a smile.

"… You were. I will not give up on you either," Blackquill finds himself saying, words coming unbidden to his lips. He looks back down at the photographs, his lips pulled in a grim line. "The individual shown on this picture, as you well know, is the phantom I've been after for nine years. Back when the HAT-1 launch was sabotaged, he impersonated a technician to infiltrate the Space Centre. You know where this is going, Fool Bright," he adds, and forces himself to look up at the man sitting before him. "You were wounded that day, while… you were wounded," he corrects himself. He knows it won't take long for him to realize he did so much worse than some sabotaging that day, but he'll delay that moment for now. "The wound is consisted with the scar on the back of your hand. Do you remember when and how you got that one?"

Fool Bright is staring down at the picture, unmoving and unblinking, and doesn't seem to have heard him at first.

"… Fool Bright. Do you remember how you got that scar?"

Still no answer, but he does shake his head, gaze still fixed on the photo. He says nothing, and Blackquill speaks up again.

"Some blood fell on the Moon Rock that day. The Phantom's blood. We were able to find traces of it on the fragment we recovered after the courtroom's explosion, as you recall, but we had no suspects whose blood samples could be compared to it. Once the truth about Bobby Fulbright was revealed, we compared it to your own DNA. It is a perfect match. You're not Bobby Fulbright, no matter what you've come to believe in these past three years. You are, or at least you used to be, an international spy known as the Phantom."

There are several moments of complete silence, and Blackquill can only watch as he begins weeping… but it's not the same loud, over the top waterworks he has come to know well. He's quiet, eerily so, while his eyes eyes fill up with tears; it is only when the drops hit the metal table that he speaks.

"I _am_ a criminal, then," Fool Bright whispers.

There is simply no way to soften the blow. "Yes. You began impersonating Bobby Fulbright three years ago. The reason why is something I'm not certain of, but I suspect you were after the psych profile I have held on after my mentor's–"

He knows he's made a mistake the same instant Fool Bright suddenly looks up, eyes widening and more tears rolling down his face, over his self-inflicted wounds. He immediately trails off, but it's much too late.

"No," Fool Bright chokes out in a voice that holds nothing but the utter horror of someone who's just seen his worst nightmare come true. He knew that the Phantom was the main suspect for Metis' Cykes murder, of course, and he knew that he had most likely murdered Clay Terran as well - but the full implication of what he's been told is only now dawning on him.

He's not only a criminal - he is a _murderer_, and the reason why Blackquill spent seven years of his life in death row.

"Fool Bright–" Blackquill speaks up, not even knowing what he could possibly say, but in the end it matters not: he has no time to add anything else.

_"NO!"_

_"Fool Bright!"_

Calling out for him accomplishes nothing this time, for the Phantom -_ Fool Bright _\- is beyond hearing him. He pulls against the straps, hunching forward as though his body is crumpling from within, and he _screams_.

It is a scream unlike anything Blackquill has ever heard before, and unlike anything he'll ever hear again.

* * *

He doesn't remember the officers pouring into the room as soon as he began screaming.

He doesn't remember being held down. He doesn't remember struggling. He doesn't remember calling out for Blackquill. He doesn't remember being sedated, and he certainly doesn't remember the moment he lost consciousness.

But then he sleeps. He dreams.

And he _remembers_.

He remembers faces, most of all. Faces he put on and discarded, faces of people who are no more. He remembers dates and names and a million little things he needed to know to slip in someone else's skin. He remembers missions, objectives to be met and obstacles to be removed. He remembers orders. He remembers sabotages. He remembers the persistent, young prosecutor from the States who somehow was able to seize a sample of his voice and had it analyzed to obtain a psych profile whose existence he could not allow. He remembers watching in silence as that same prosecutor was convicted for murder and sentenced to death.

He remembers _murders_.

He remembers Metis Cykes' expression when the blade tore through her, her daughter's screams, the white-hot pain on the back of his hand and blood dripping from his wound to fall on the Moon Rock and mix on his victim's.

He remembers Bobby Fulbright. He remembers observing him for a time, he remembers crafting his mask. He remembers that stab in the chest that ended his life. He remembers the blood. He remembers taking his body to an abandoned warehouse just outside the city. He remembers the fire, the smell of charred flesh, remembers the moment he wiped off a speck of blood from the detective's badge and slid it into his pocket.

He remembers Clay Terran. He remembers the explosion, the struggle, the knife, the leap, the lighter he used to pin the crime on Athena Cykes.

He remembers all of it, and he wakes up screaming.

They sedate him again, and for a time he remembers nothing more.

* * *

"… And afterwards, there was no reasoning with him. He had to be sedated and taken away."

A brief silence follows Simon's words, a silence that is filled up by what his heart is spelling right and clear to her ears. There is anger, there is sorrow, there is bitterness. Athena bites her lower lip, eyes fixed on the mug of coffee she hasn't even touched if not to keep her hands occupied with _something_.

She's not surprised: it was obvious from the start that a person with Fulbright's personality and morality - someone _trapped_ in his mindset - would react horribly to such news. Simon knew it, too, but went ahead because it was the only thing to do, because it couldn't be kept hidden and the man living in Fulbright's skin has every right to know the truth.

But it still is sad, so horribly _sad_, for him and Simon both.

"Do you know how he's doing now?" she finds herself asking, finally looking up. Simon is glaring down at a piece of paper she's come to know well by now: the psych profile of the phantom her mother wrote, the reason why she was murdered.

Slowly, Simon nods. "When I called this morning, they told me he's still under the effect of a relatively milder sedative. They dare not take the straightjacket off him yet."

"Do they think he may hurt himself again?"

"They fear he may do something more drastic than that," he says darkly.

The thought makes her shiver, but she doesn't truly think that's a possibility. "He wouldn't do it. Suicide wouldn't fit with Fulbright's personality at all - there would be no _justice_ in taking his own life and avoid the trial."

"He is not Bobby Fulbright. He knows that now."

"But he still has his personality and beliefs. Isn't that the reason why he's suffering so much?"

That causes Simon to sigh. "I suppose. But no chances will be taken. He'll most likely be on suicide watch until his trial," he adds, and scoffs. "Rather ironic, considering what the outcomes of the trial is going to be. But there is more he needs to tell us before he hangs, provided that he can remember any of it."

Athena frowns and lets the spoon fall back into the mug. "Are you going to go for the death penalty?" she asks. There is no doubt in her mind that he's going to be the prosecutor when it's time for his trial, and of course she's known that's the penalty he'd always planned to seek for the phantom the day he was caught. But now that they know the truth, it is hard for her not to feel terrible.

The Phantom was a murderer, but what is there _left_ of that murderer now?

Simon scowls and puts the psych profile back in his pocket. "It is what I'd normally ask for anyone guilty of more than one murder. I cannot play favorites because he was my– he _posed_ as my partner. He may prefer death to living with what he's done."

That is true enough, Athena knows, but the thought of execution still doesn't sit well with her. It would feel all the world like sentencing a man to death for the crimes of another. "His psychological profile and mental state are nowhere near_normal_. There could be the grounds to argue for a different penalty."

"A life sentence, then?" Simon asks quietly. He's frowning, but he doesn't seem to be opposed to the idea.

"Or a lifetime commitment to mental health facility. Maybe they could help him."

"Tch. The Phantom is beyond help."

"… What about Fool Bright?"

Simon says nothing for several moments, and his cellphone rings before he can say anything.

Athena blinks. "Hey, I know that tune! Isn't that from the Steele Samurai show we used to watch together when I was a kid? You were always pointing out this or that inconsistency in the costumes, though…"

"I recall no such thing," Simon says quickly before taking the call. His expressions sobers up the next moment, and Athena's own grin fades as she listens to the call - not much of a feat with her hearing.

"… And he keeps insisting that he must see you. He says he has remembered, and that he needs to confess to everything. He's very agitated and we'd rather not sedate him once again, so if you could drop by…"

"I will be there in ten minutes' time," Simon cuts them off, and ends the call. He speaks to Athena without looking at her. "I trust you heard what it was about."

"Yes. So… I guess he remembered…?"

Simon nods and stands. "That's what I'm set to find out. I'll let you know what the outcome of this meeting is," he adds, putting down a bill to pay for both of their lunches before he leaves without another word.

Athena keeps sitting there for a while longer, holding the mug of cooling coffee, saying nothing.

* * *

This time, they decided to spare him the indignity of a straightjacket.

He's still restrained, of course, his wrists cuffed and secured to the metal table by short chains connected to metal pegs. Not that he's even trying to break free this time: when Blackquill walks in he can see he's resting on the table, head nestled in his folded arms, frame shuddering. He looks up, however, when he hears the door closing behind Blackquill.

"Prosecutor Blackquill," he chokes out, his voice shaking. He's far from a pleasant sight: his scratched up-face is reddened and swollen from crying, as are his eyes. He's obviously been weeping for a long time, and barely holding back from crying rivers once again.

"Fool Bright," Blackquill says quietly, and sits across him. "I see you have regained the capability of speech, if anything. I trust you shall not resume screaming like a Banshee in my presence."

The man before him shudders, choking back a sob. "I'm sorry," he manages. "I didn't know, I… I'm so _sorry_…!"

"Silence," Blackquill cuts him off before his voice breaks, before he can lose control again. "If you're truly remorseful, then there are better ways to prove as much than bleating at me. I was told you wish to confess. Confess to what, precisely?"

Fool Bright swallows before speaking. "Everything," he manages. "Everything I can remember."

And confess he does. He doesn't remember too far back, not enough to recall who he is - but what he remembers is enough to keep them occupied the whole afternoon and well into the evening, filling up the longest confession transcript Blackquill can remember ever handling.

He tells them everything he recalled through a night of nightmares, crying rivers and having to pause from time to time, sobs shaking his whole frame and threatening to choke him. He speaks of people whose place he's taken, companies and corporations he's infiltrated, of the organization he worked for. He speaks out the names of those who gave him the order to sabotage the HAT-1 launch. He confesses to Metis Cykes' murder - something that leaves him unable to speak for whole minutes, a sobbing mess resting his head on the table's cold surface.

He confesses to infiltrating several different countries' intelligence in the years after the HAT-1 sabotage. He confesses to the murder of Bobby Fulbright in order to take his place, to his attempts at retrieving the psych profile, to the murder of Clay Terran for the Moon Rock, to framing Athena and planning the courtroom bombing. He admits to keeping Bobby Fulbright's mask on once Blackquill was acquitted in order to try and acquire the psych profile… and then nothing more, which leads Blackquill to the conclusion it must have been around that time that his mind became unable to differentiate himself from Bobby Fulbright, leading him to forget everything Bobby Fulbright would have never done or been involved with.

_He wore that one mask for too long_.

By the time the confession is over with, it is dark outside. Once the confession's transcript has been printed out - twice, for he's cried so hard that the first copy got too soggy to handle - he is obviously too exhausted to do anything but weep, head resting on his folded arms.

"Leave us," Blackquill speaks for the first time in a long while, gesturing for the officers to leave the room. One of them gives him a confused look, holding up the copy of the confession they managed to salvage from the river of tears.

"But, sir, he needs to sign–"

"By what _name_ do you suggest he should do that, you dolt?" Blackquill snaps, causing both officers to recoil, and they leave the room without further trying his patience.

And the gods know just how little of it he has left, after listening to that dreadful wailing for the whole afternoon and evening. While there were moments through the confession when it was hard to feel any pity for the miserable creature weeping before him - the moment he recalled murdering his mentor being one of them, along with the moment he admitted to trying to frame Athena for murder - it's difficult to find his old anger while watching the heap of misery who used to be his phantom, and until mere days ago was his partner.

_It makes no difference. It's the same person who took your mother from us._

_He remembers nothing. He made Fulbright's personality, memories and beliefs his own. If that's not what makes a _person_, what does?_

"… Fool Bright."

Fool Bright's breath hitches, but he doesn't look up. Blackquill holds back from snapping, and busies himself pouring some water on a plastic glass from the jug one of the officers left on the table.

"Cease your sniveling. Your death by dehydration while in the hands of law would make for more trouble than you're worth. Drink," he adds, putting the glass down within reach of his shackled hands and trying not to focus on the scar Athena left on him, not to think of when it was hidden by a white glove. "That is an _order_."

That finally makes Fool Bright lift his head and look up at him. His breath is hitching and his frame is shaking, but he seems to have ran out of tears to cry at long last.

"Prosecutor, I–"

"_Drink_. I shall not listen to any of your pathetic bleating until you have emptied that glass as you've emptied you conscience."

He obeys, his hands shaking, and not one drop of water goes wasted: he drinks like a man who's been walking through a desert, and when he puts the glass down he seems marginally calmer. He gives a deep breath before he trusts himself to speak.

"Thank you," he rasps.

"How long has it been since you have last eaten?"

"I… a day, I think? Last time was before you told me…" Fool Bright pauses and swallows, lowering his gaze.

_Before I told you the truth_.

"I see. We're well past dinner time. I'll make sure you have food brought to your cell later on. You _shall_ eat, lest you wish to bear the indignity of a feeding tube," Blackquill says, the memory of Bobby Fulbright's concerns over his own health while in prison echoing in his mind.

_You should eat more than that, Prosecutor Blackquill! I'll get a you proper lunch after the trial!_

It was a lie, back then, in every way. The Phantom has confessed that, before his acquittal, he was still well aware of _not_ being Bobby Fulbright and entirely focused on trying to pry the psych profile from him.

_When did that change, Fool Bright? What day did you cross the line between pretense and your own warped reality?_

"… Yes, sir," is all Fool Bright says, not looking up. He's staring down at the back of his right hand, at the scar Athena left on him. It is obvious that he's no longer weeping only because he's too drained to. "I'm… I… I don't even know what to_say_."

"Hmph. Judging by the amount of pages we filled up with your confession, you have spoken sufficiently for today. Is there anything else you remembered doing?"

Fool Bright shakes his head, eyes downcast. "No."

"No clue on who you truly are, then."

"I… I don't really want to know that. It can't have been anyone good. But I'll try to remember more of what I _did_!" he adds suddenly, looking up at him. The anguish is still there, written on his feature clear as day, but there is something else as well - an iron-clad determination that is the one trait of Bobby Fulbright Blackquill can admit he truly admired. "I will try, I promise! I'll tell you everything I can! Information, names, everything!"

Somehow, that doesn't quite come as a surprise. "Hmph. Still bent on serving justice, I see."

"It's the least I could do. After I… after…" Fool Bright pauses, his voice wavering, but he doesn't break again. "After everything I have done, I _must_ give you all I can to… to serve _some_ justice, at least."

It is what Blackquill expected and hoped to hear, but he can't hold back from warning him. "… Forcing such memories on your mind may not go easy on you," he says. There is no doubt that each new memory of a crime would pain Fool Bright beyond words, if the sad scene he witnessed today is of any indication.

"It doesn't matter. I'm guilty of the Phantom's crimes, so… I must pay for them. If I can at least help you make justice, then… then maybe there is hope for me yet?" he adds, his voice weak. He looks up at Blackquill, and it's plain to see how frail that hope is, how easily he could crush it with one harsh word. Doesn't the Phantom deserve as much, after subjecting him to seven years in prison, hope fading year after year?

_There is hope for your rehabilitation and reentrance into society. I will never give up on you!_

_The Phantom is beyond help._

_… What about Fool Bright?_

"… Tch. Do you think I'm in the habit of wasting my time on lost causes, Fool Bright?" Blackquill finally scoffs. "I would not be having this tedious conversation with you now if I thought otherwise."

Some of the anguish on the Phantom's face melts away, leaving behind some surprise and, Blackquill supposes, the closest to relief he's capable of feeling with such a heavy burden on his heart. "Prosecutor Blackquill, I–"

"_Silence_. You have spoken enough and I've grown tired of your jabbering," Blackquill cuts him off, and turns his back to him to walk to the door. "I trust you'll know better than subjecting me to your wailing next time," he adds, and leaves the room without looking back or waiting for an answer.


	4. Escape

"You have visitors."

The officer's voice and the sound of the cell's door being unlocked startles him from his memories - which is to say, it startles him from his unsuccessful attempt at making himself remember what he was precisely doing in Zheng Fa some years ago. It is one of the most frustrating things - remembering he was up to something at one point, but being unable to remember precisely what he was up to and when.

It's starting to make his head hurt.

"Visitors?" he repeats, standing from the cot and holding out his hands to let the officer handcuff him. That's odd: his only visitor so far has been prosecutor Blackquill, and he was certainly never referred to as a visitor.

The officer nods. "Yeah, those two attorneys. Athena Cykes and Apollo Justice."

The mention of those names makes Bobby feel as though his stomach has turned into lead. He has thought of them in the past week, very often, and most of all he's thought of what he has taken from them. A mother and a lifelong friend - what can he even say to them now that aren't simply pathetic excuses?

Nothing, he knows. He has only words, and words will never be _enough_.

_I can't do this_, Bobby thinks, and yet he doesn't try to resist and lets the officer lead him to the visitor's room. He knows that refusing to see a visitor is within his rights, legally speaking... but morally, he can't bring himself to invoke that right. He has no right to avoid them.

_None_.

They're already sitting on the other side of the glass when he's lead inside the room, and seeing them is enough to make his knees weak. Cykes looks actually concerned, biting on her lower lip, while Justice is sitting rigidly, his expression stony.

Bobby cannot tell whose gaze is the hardest to hold, and he finds that he can't hold either. He looks down and walks to his seat on legs that seem to be made of jelly. He himself fall on it rather than sit, eyes fixed on his own shackled wrists, on the scar crossing the back of his hand. For several, long moments there is nothing but a heavy silence.

**Is anyone gonna talk here?**

The voice coming from the device around Cykes' neck causes all three of them to wince, and Bobby to finally force himself to look up. He opens his mouth to speak, but he can't force any words out. It is Cykes to break the silence.

"... How are you?" she finally asks, sounding extremely awkward. Beside her, Justice says nothing at all.

"I... I'm fine," Bobby says, lowering his eyes again. Each words takes a terrible effort to utter, and the situation as a whole feels surreal. "I'm trying to... trying to be of use."

"I know. I mean, Simon told us," Cykes said. "He says you've been telling them so much stuff they don't even know where to get their investigation started!"

The amusement in her voice makes him smile weakly. He is aiding justice now, if anything. "There is more, I'm sure. I need to remember it. I'm getting there - I'll tell everything I can. I know it can't make up for..." he pauses, his voice failing him, and swallows. "For everything I did, and... your mother, and Clay Terran..."

"He was murdered because he wouldn't surrender the capsule, wasn't he?" Justice speaks up, his voice a lot sharper then hers. Bobby winces, but he does force himself to look up.

"Yes. He was not supposed to die or even be involved, but the capsule was what I was after and... he had it," he says, trying and failing to keep his voice firm. "He struggled, and I..." his voice breaks, and he finds he can't meet Justice's gaze anymore. He buries his face in his hands, chest hurting with the effort to keep himself from sobbing. "I'm sorry. I'm _sorry_...!"

"I see. You're _so_ sorry you only confessed after being caught," is the bitter reply.

"Apollo, he didn't _remember_," Cykes speaks. "I told you-"

"That doesn't matter," Bobby manages, face still burrowed in his hands. "He's right. I murdered him. I tried to pin the murder on _you_. I forgot, but back then I knew all that I was doing, and... and I knew I had killed your mother, too, I _knew_ it, and I still looked at you in the face and talked about _justice_, I tried to frame you and... and-!"

That's all he can say, as far as he can go: the next moment he's unable to hold back and starts crying, his face - that face he could not even remember, that face he never wishes to look at again - still buried in his hands. Prosecutor Blackquill may believe that there is still hope for him, and knowing that was an immense comfort - but, before two people whose loved ones he murdered, it doesn't help at all.

For a time, he can't tell just how long, neither of them says a word and he can hear nothing but his own weeping. Then, finally, he hears Cykes speaking.

"My mother... she walked in her office you were looking for the profile, didn't she? She saw you. That's why you killed her."

"Yes," Bobby chokes out. "There was a katana on display, and I... I picked it up and-"

"Hey, enough," she cuts him off, knocking on the glass and causing him to wince and look up. Through the veil of tears, she can see she looks saddened. Justice is looking down, arms crossed over his chest, as though lost in thought. "I know that. You don't need to recall it now. You confessed and everything. We-"

"Did Clay have to suffer?" Justice speaks up, looking back at him. His eyes are just as stony as when he first got in, but there is something else there - the obvious hope that the answer will be the one he hopes for. "The... the coroner said he was stabbed through the heart. He said it must have been quick. _Was_ it?"

It was. Thank God, Bobby thinks, at least _that_. "Yes. He died instantly or almost. I... I aimed to kill quickly and leave, therefore..."

"I see," Justice cuts him off, clearly not wishing to hear anything more. He stands abruptly. "I'll be waiting outside."

Cykes seems saddened to see him leaving, but she doesn't say anything until they're alone again. Then she smiles, or tries to. "So, uh... how should I call you?"

He doesn't know, truth be told. For the lack of a better name, he still thinks of himself as _Bobby_. And prosecutor Blackquill...

"I... Blackquill still calls me Fulbright," he says.

Cykes blinks. "Wait, is _that_ what you think he calls you?"

"... Isn't it?"

"Er, no. He's always called you Fool Bright. As in, two separate words, you know?"

"Two separate words? What wor- Oh. _Oh_."

Something about his expression must be especially amusing, because she laughs. "What, you mean you never _realized_ that?"

He smiles back, if sheepishly. "Uh, no. No idea. I assumed he had a funny way to pronounce it."

That gets another snicker out of her before she turns more serious. "Yes, but really... how do you want to be called? Assuming you want me to leave _Fool Bright_ to Simon."

Bobby's weak smile fades entirely. He looks down. "No, I... I think it's fitting, really. I _am_ a fool. I may as well remember that."

"... I think you're doing pretty well now, you know. Cooperating with justice and all. I'm sure Detective Fulbright would be proud."

Somehow, that stings more than anything. It stings because it's true, he knows it is. Bobby Fulbright, the _real_ Bobby Fulbright, would have believed in Blackquill's humanity to the very end, would have never given up the hope of redeeming him even while believing him a murderer; he wouldn't give up on him now, either.

"I wouldn't deserve it," he chokes out, shutting his eyes. "I _murdered_ him."

She hesitates. "About that... there is something Detective Gumshoe asked us to ask you. He couldn't bring himself to come here," Cykes says, her voice quiet. "He wanted to know, about Fulbright... it was impossible to tell the cause of death. You already confessed you stabbed him. Detective Gumshoe would like to know if... if it was quick."

_Gumshoe_.

"Yes," he manages. "It was quick, as with Clay Terran. A stab through the heart. He... he had no time to even realize what was happening."

_The I burned his body. I destroyed his face, but not his fingerprints. They were never supposed to recover that data. I didn't think it was needed. How long would I have kept living as Bobby Fulbright if I wasn't found out?_

"I see. Thank you. I'm sure Detective Gumshoe will be relieved to know that," Cykes says, then she draws in a deep breath. "There is another reason why I came here. Your trial will be in a week, won't it?"

_The trial. _

"Yes," Bobby says, trying to ignore the sense of dread in his chest. He wants justice to be served and he trusts prosecutor Blackquill to ensure that happens. He _must _pay for his crimes, and he's ready to. But at the same time, the thought of standing in a courtroom as the defendant with Blackquill at the prosecution's bench chills him to the bone. "I... I trust prosecutor Blackquill will ensure that justice is do-"

"I'd like to be your attorney."

"You _what_?"

Cykes winces. "Hey, don't yell! I can hear you just fine!"

Oh. Oh, right. Her hearing. "Sorry! I'm sorry! I mean, no- I mean, I _am _sorry, but- _why _would you defend me? I... I tried to pin a murder on you, I killed your mother, and...!"

"My mother's exactly it," Cykes cuts him off, reaching up to toy with her earring, a thoughtful expression on her face. "What you did was horrible. There _has _to be justice. But you're not even the same person anymore," she adds. "You really have turned into someone else - you have someone else's _personality_. You didn't even remember being the Phantom!"

Bobby looks down. "That doesn't matter at all. I... I am a murderer. I am a criminal. I am responsible for it all even if I forgot, or... or turned into someone else afterwards. I deserve to be punished."

"Yes. And you also need help. _Professional _help."

"I murdered your-"

"My mother was a _psychologist_," Cykes cuts him off, her voice suddenly sharper. "And I know that she more than anyone would agree that you should be helped. I'm... I'm sure Simon knows that, too."

"Tch. Since when do your abilities include mind reading?"

Blackquill's voice causes both Bobby and Cykes to wince and turn. Blackquill is standing right at the doorway, hands crossed over his chest and something akin to a smirk on his face. Cykes gives him a sheepish grin.

"Oh. Hey. You're not _supposed _to walk in during a visit."

"The officers know better than trying to keep me from being precisely where I wish to be. I knew what this had to be about as soon as I heard you and Justice were here. Not that I didn't suspect you'd decide to take his defense from the moment you mentioned the possibility of a lifetime commitment to a mental health facility," Blackquill adds, and goes to sit on the chair Justice occupied minutes ago. "Fool Bright," he greets him with a nod, as though having just now noticed his presence.

"Prosecutor," Bobby murmurs, not quite knowing what to say. Suddenly, it feels all the world like he's the one intruding in a conversation he has no right to listen.

Cykes crosses her arms, a frown on her face. "Look at me and tell me you _really _believe death penalty would be the right sentence to seek for him," she challenges.

"It is the default for murder, let alone several murders, short of some serious extenuating circumstances."

"He doesn't even have a _personality _of his own!" Cykes points out. "Things like Dissociative Identity Disorder _do _count as extenuating circumstances, and his issues go well past that. He has _literally _turned into someone else - whatever personality he used to have hasn't just subsided. It's _gone_. "

Blackquill pulls his lips in a grim line and stares straight at Bobby. "I am aware of that," he says. "I suppose the real Detective Fulbright may have said the same, bleeding heart as he was. What do _you _say, Fool Bright?"

Bobby looks down, unable to hold his gaze. "... I said I trust you to deliver justice. I really do," he manages. "So, whatever... whatever you decide, I'll accept it, sir."

For a few long moments no one speaks, and even with his gaze lowered Bobby is well aware of both of their gazes on him. Finally, it is Blackquill to break the silence.

"... Very well. We'll discuss the matter elsewhere. You may want to rest, Fool Bright; your last interrogation left you quite drained, as I recall. Have you remembered anything you wish to share with us since then?"

"I... no. But I'm trying to-"

"Keep trying, then," Blackquill cuts him off, and stands, gesturing for Cykes to follow. She does, but she turns back to nod at Bobby before going through the door. Then the door closes and they're gone, leaving him alone, unable to tear away his gaze from the scar crossing the back of his hand.

* * *

"... Therefore, you both agree on his guilt and mean to reach an agreement over the penalty. Is that so?"

Blackquill nods, noting that the Chief Prosecutor doesn't look surprised at all. "Precisely. He confessed to everything, and therefore there is no point in even arguing his guilt. The defense concedes he's guilty of all charges. Isn't that so, Wright-dono?"

Wright - whose attention seems to be partly taken by the chessboard across the room, where one lone blue piece is surrounded by red ones - turns back to them and nods.

"Of course. My client is guilty of all charges. All that there is left to discuss is the penalty, and with his state of mind we both feel there are the extenuating circumstances needed to rule out the death penalty," he says. "That, and Prosecutor Blackquill says my client has been extremely cooperative."

Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth's gaze shifts on Blackquill, who nods. "As you very well known, he's confessed to everything he's been able to recall so far. He's trying to remember more as we speak - something rather taxing to him, truth be told. He's determined to cooperate at the best of his abilities, and has confessed to crimes we would have never _known _about otherwise. I believe that shows his remorse better than his wailing ever could."

"I see. What is the penalty you propose, then?"

"Remorse doesn't cancel out his crimes, obviously. He's ready to pay for them, and he will. He should never be a free man again. The prosecution's request is a lifetime commitment to a mental health institution. Does the defense believe it a fair deal?"

Wright nods. "Yes. I believe it's the only fair outcome for this. Besides," he adds, taking a folded piece of paper from his pocket and putting it down on the Chief Prosecutor's desk. "The only living relative of one of his victims wishes to put forward a request of leniency."

"I see," the Chief Prosecutor says, skimming over it. "From Athena Cykes, obviously. I assume this is the reason why she's not the one taking the defense as she said she would at first?"

"Yes. She couldn't be make the request if she was _also _his lawyer. I was all too willing to step in."

With a hum, Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth puts the request down and rests his chin on his folded arms, elbows resting on his desk. "Very well. Has the defendant authorized an agreement between defense and prosecution?"

"Yes. He left it entirely in our hands," Wright says. Blackquill nods as well, Fool Bright's voice echoing in the back of his mind.

_I said I trust you to deliver justice. I really do. So, whatever... whatever you decide, I'll accept it, sir_.

A nod. "I see," he says, and turns to Blackquill. "The trial will be held behind closed doors; the Phantom is at high risk of assassination, and a public in the courtroom would make it all the more difficult to keep the situation under control. The judge will have the last word on this, but with both defense and prosecution agreeing, I can't see any reason why he shouldn't agree with your conclusion. Details on _where _he's held must never leave you," he adds. "It is safer for him this way. If the judge agrees to the sentence, it will be known that he received a life sentence thanks to his cooperation and state of mind being mitigating circumstances. Nothing more."

"Understood," Blackquill says. It is for the best, and not only for the Phantom's safety: it's for his own as well. Aura is very likely to become furious when word reaches that he didn't ask for the death penalty. If she found out he won't be in a proper prison, either, she might just try to murder him.

Unaware of his thoughts, Wright blinks and glances at Blackquill. "How many toes _did _he step on?"

"Tch. Far too many for his own good, and we may not even know half of it. He knows more than what he remembers at the moment, I'm sure. He's dealt with dangerous people for a long time, but I'm certain we can keep him safe from retribution," he adds.

He'd know just how wrong that assumption is in a mere two weeks.

* * *

"... That is all. The court is adjourned."

Slumped on the defendant's chair, Bobby barely hears the sound of the judge's gavel over his own sobbing. He's been unable to stop crying for a while now: he could manage to hold back through most of the - rather brief - trial, even when Blackquill had acknowledged his cooperation and confirmed his agreement with the defense to spare him the death penalty... but he entirely lost it when Athena Cykes asked for leniency on his behalf.

_My mother was a psychologist, Your Honor. I'm certain she would have agreed with me when I say that the defendant needs help_.

"Fool Bright."

Bobby tears his hands from his face and looks up to see, through a veil of tears, Prosecutor Blackquill towering over him. "Prosecutor Blackquill," he manages, but he doesn't get any further, because the next moment Blackquill is shoving something before his face - a tissue.

"_Tch_. Blow your nose and try again. Listening to you talking is nothing short of atrocious."

Do does as he's told, blowing his nose with a rather undignified honking noise, and when he looks up again Athena Cykes is there as well. She looks tired, but she's smiling regardless.

"... Hey."

"Cykes," Bobby chokes out. "I... I... thank you. _Thank you_."

"Hmph. There are enough people who'd love to see you dead as it is, Fool Bright. No need to add ourselves to the list. If you wish to thank us, you know what's required of you," prosecutor Blackquill says. "If you recall anything at all, you must let me know."

"Just don't push yourself too hard," Cykes adds, and glares up at Blackquill. "He's supposed to get _better_."

"I already am a lot better," Bobby says, standing up, and two officers are at either side of him right away, to lead him out of the courtroom. He smiles, and it feels like his first _real_ smile in a long time. "I... I hope to see you soon, prosecutor Blackquill. I'll let you know when I remember more - I _know _there is more. In justice we trust," he adds without thinking, and Cykes smiles, bringing her hand up to her head in a salute.

"In justice we trust."

* * *

**One week later.**

"Hey, John. Not your lucky day, huh?"

The nurse's voice, along with the pressure of a hand on his shoulder, causes Bobby - he still thinks of himself by that name, though everyone in there uses the moniker _John Doe_ as his paperwork says - to look up from the bingo board and laugh.

"Hah! Not really. Didn't place one single number yet, as usual," he says, entirely turning his attention off the game. He actually won last time, but he said nothing and just switched his board with that of another inmate who had _really_ wanted the hand-knitted socks they had as a prize. "Maybe I should stop trying, huh?"

The nurse - Arthur Mometer, right? Sometimes it's hard to keep track of all names in there - chuckles. "Well, if you're giving up, how about a walk outside? I heard you've had a few difficult nights. A bit of extra sunlight would do you good."

That's temping, Bobby has to admit. He's been having nightmares lately, and they never fail to make him feel drained through most of the day. He can't remember then upon awakening, sadly, so it doesn't even help him remember anything that may aid prosecutor Blackquill's investigation.

Besides, he's _definitely_ not going to win this Bingo game.

"That would be great," he says, and stands to follow Arthur out in the yard, where the inmates who didn't take part to the Bingo game are already enjoying some sunlight. The yard isn't half bad, with grass and benches; it may look like a park if it wasn't for the walls all around it.

Well, that and the fact some of the people out there are wearing cuffs and a couple are not allowed out of their straightjackets. Bobby is rather glad he doesn't have to wear either: he was cooperative from the start, obviously, and never needed to be restrained. He's not allowed to have anything he could use to harm himself or anyone else - no sharp objects, no belt, no shoe strings - but then again no one is. He'd never try to hurt anyone or end his own life to escape his punishment, but he can't blame them for being careful.

"Say, have you remembered anything?" Arthur asks as the walk to the far end of the yard, to a free bench, and Bobby can only sigh and shake his head.

"I'm afraid not. I try and try, but I keep drawing a blank. All I get are dreams I can't remember in the morning," he says. "And the bits I do remember make no sense."

"Maybe you should give it a rest, John."

"But prosecutor Blackquill needs-"

"I'm certain he's busy enough as it is for now. He won't die if you don't give out more information for a while," Arthur cuts him off, now sounding a little sterner. "Your well-being is our first concern, and it should be yours as well. Want to tell me more about these 'bits' you remember?" he adds, gesturing for him to sit on the bench.

Maybe he has a point, Bobby thinks, and nods. After all, he did promise he'd try to get better aside from trying to dig up more information. "Fine," he mutters, sitting down. He expects Arthur to sit as well, but instead he frowns and puts a hand in his pocket.

"Oh, damn. I forgot my buzzer. Must have left it in the cafeteria," he says with a groan. "Wait just a minute, I'll be right back."

"Sure!"

As the nurse walks back towards the building to fetch his buzzer, Bobby sighs and leans back on the bench. it is kind of cold - it's February, after all - but as long as he stays in the sun it isn't too bad: just kind of chilly, but not unpleasantly so. That place in general isn't too bad, and it's easy to forget it's also a _prison_ other than a hospital: as long as he doesn't cause trouble, the only reminder of that are the walls and the security guards all over the place. Most of them are not from the police, come to think of it, but from some private security company. What was it again...?

Oh, right - KB Security.

_... KB Security...?_

Bobby frowns at the sudden tug at the corner of his mind, as though there is something there - something he should know, something he _does_ know but that's just beyond his reach now. There is something familiar about that company's name, but he can't quite put his finger on it. Has he ran into it while working for the police? Was it involved in a case, or...?

Such thoughts are suddenly cut off when his wandering gaze is caught by something on top of the hospital's roof right before him, some kind of... is something gleaming up there...? There is, or at least there _was_ until a moment ago, like sunlight reflecting on metal. He narrows his eyes, trying to see-

_A sniper_.

There is another sudden gleam on top of the roof, and instinct - _whose instinct?_ \- kicks in before rational thought can. He throws himself on the ground just on time, just as the shot rings out. There is a sudden pain in his right arm, but he has no time to worry about it, not now.

_I have to move_.

He's up and running the next moment, just as another bullet hits the ground where he was an instant ago, kicking up some dirt and grass. He runs in a zig-zag pattern to make a more difficult target, not even knowing whose training that is coming from - Fulbright's, or his own? - and not really caring to know.

He needs to get back inside, he thinks, he needs to join up with the others, inmates and doctors alike. They heard the shots as well, and they're scrambling to get back inside the building, to safety and-

_Wait_.

_The others_.

Realization hits him like a bolt of lighting, and he makes a sharp turn to his left, narrowly avoiding another bullet and running towards an entirely different direction. He _can't _mix up with the others without getting them in harm's way, not with a sniper trying to take him down: it's like asking for a casualty, and too many people have died because of him already.

He won't add one more victim to the list.

_The gate._

The thick iron gate that separates the yard from outside is inset in the perimeter wall, far in enough and at such an angle to give him shelter from any bullet coming the hospital's roof - and it won't have to be for long, he tells himself as he sprints towards the gate, because security has been alerted by now and the sniper will have to escape.

_KB Security. When have I heard that name before...? _

"Hey! What are you _doing _here?"

Bobby barely hears the guard's words over his own panting breath as he allows himself to collapse as soon as he reaches the relative safety before the gate. His right arm feels warm and stick with blood, and his chest is burning with effort.

"I... a... someone tried to shoot..." he pants, sitting up as the guard gets out of the bulletproof booth he's usually in and walks up to him. "A... a sniper."

The guard stares down at him or a few moments, then he sighs. Bobby's gaze falls on the ID poking out of his uniform's breast pocket. KB Security_._

There _is_ something familiar about it, as though... is that...?

_KB Security used to gather information on their clients and sell it for profit. I know that because... because..._

_I know because I infiltrated it to take that information_.

Bobby's eyes widen, realization finally sinking in and turning his blood into ice in his veins.

_There are enough people who'd love to see you dead as it is, Fool Bright._

Unaware of the realization that's just dawned on him, the guard sighs and reaches to take out his gun. "Snipers," he mutters with no small amount of disgust. "Pah. If you want job well done- AAAGH!"

His words turn into a scream when Bobby's foot shoots out against the man's unprotected ankle, a scream that barely covers the sound of bones cracking. He collapses, the gun falling from his hand, and Bobby grabs it before he can, lifts it over his head and-

There is a dull thud when the gun's handle hits the man's head, and he immediately stops moving, stops trying to grab his gun to fall back on the ground, limp and still.

_Have I... have I killed him?_

No, Bobby is relieved to realize as he drops the gun as though it just burned his hand. He's still breathing, so he hasn't killed anyone, he'll _never _kill anyone again. He allows himself a moment of relief before he forces himself to think back of the situation at hand.

There is a sniper that tried to shoot him, and at this point it's clear that the security let him in - this guard was about to _kill _him just now. That, and the nurse who led him outside must have been into this as well - he brought him exactly where they wanted, where the sniper could shoot him.

_This place's own security is after me. I cannot stay here._

There are shouts, the sound of running footsteps, but they seem as far away as the pain in his arm as Bobby reaches for the man's badge - the only way to open the gate.

* * *

"Escape? How _could_ they let that wretched _beast_ escape?"

The man on the other side of the line stutters and stammers, but he does give an answer, if a very confused one: there were shots fired, apparently, perhaps from an accomplice to distract the security guards, and the Phantom had been able to take down the only security guard left at the gate, take his badge and escape.

"That was only a few hours ago, sir, and we're looking for him everywhere. I'm certain we-"

Whatever he says next is lost to him, for Simon ends the call and slams his fist on the side of the cart. _"Balderdash!"_

"I don't know what your issue is, but punch my cart again and you get all the salty broth I have here down your throat," Guy Eldoon snaps, but Blackquill doesn't bother to say anything: he's aware of nothing but the blood rushing in his ears, Athena's gaze on him and the fury and betrayal that threatens to choke him.

_I do believe you, Fool Bright_.

_That wretched liar...!_

"... So he _was_ lying. It was an act all along."

Justice is the first one to speak, his gaze dark, and Blackquill clenches his jaw.

"It appears so. I allowed myself to be thoroughly fooled. I do apologize."

"Wait, wait!" Athena speaks up, putting her bowl of noodles back down. "He was not lying! He can't have been lying - even the Magatama said as much! He can't have possibly rigged that! There must be another explanation!" she adds, but he can see the doubt and hurt in her eyes as she speaks those words.

They were wrong, and a murderer is now free because of that.

Blackquill opens his mouth to say they would get their answers, one way or another, when his cell phone rings again. He takes the call and brings it to his ear with a snarl.

"Unless it's to tell me you have caught that slippery eel-"

"Prosecutor Blackquill!"

Blackquill's voice fades in a stunned moment of silence before he can find it in himself to speak again. "... Fool Bright?" he calls out, barely aware of the surprised look on both Athena and Justice's faces. "What...?"

"I'm sorry, sir," Fool Bright speaks again, his voice hurried. "I'm _so_ sorry! I never wanted to run away! I had to!"

_Had to...?_

"Where _are_ you?"

"I... I can't tell you. Your phone may be under control. They're trying to track me down. They tried to _kill_ me. Don't tell the police, sir, _please_, I'm sure they're among them too...!" Fool Bright mutters, his voice now even more urgent, almost panicked. "I... I can't speak for much longer. I have to move."

"What in the blazes are you prattling about? Tell me where to find-"

"Rubbish," Fool Bright cuts him off, causing him to blink. "We will be out on a stroll."

"Fool Bright-!"

There is the clicking noise of a phone being hung up, and the conversation ends. Blackquill immediately checks his call log, but no caller ID shows. A pay phone? It seems likely.

"Was it really _him_?"

Justice sounds nothing short of stunned, and Blackquill certainly cannot blame him. Athena, who was clearly able to hear what Fool Bright said from the other side of the line, nods.

"That was his voice, no doubt! Or, well, his voice as Fulbright's voice. Either way, it was him," she says. "He said someone tried to kill him. There's got to be more to his escape than just _escaping_ if he called for your help."

"How does that _imbecile_ expect me to help him if he didn't tell me where he is?"

"Don't people usually call the police at this point?" Guy Eldoon's voice rings out, causing all three of them to recoil, having entirely forgotten about his presence. He's crossing his arms over his chest and looks rather annoyed, as usual.

Blackquill shakes his head. "No police. From what he told me, it sounds like he'd be in grave danger if the police was involved."

"Well, _duh_," Eldoon mutters. "It's a criminal on the loose we're talking about."

"It's his life he fears for," Blackquill says. "There was an assassination attempt, apparently, and he believes someone from the police may have been involved," he adds, scowling. How is he supposed to help if he doesn't even know where to find him?

"... Hey, Simon. That last thing he said - about taking a stroll," Athena speaks slowly, frowning in thought. "It was weird, wasn't it? I think he was trying to tell you something. Isn't it something you said at some point? During a trial? I think it was, but I can't remember..."

"During a trial? _Tch_. That's preposterous. What would make me walk out of a trial for a-"

_Rubbish! We will be out on a stroll. Come, Fool Bright. I grow tired of this dotard's prattling._

... Wait.

_Oh, that's a great idea! I always say you could use a stroll, prosecutor Blackquill! How about we head to-_

_Of course!_

"... I know where to find him," Blackquill says, shoving the cell phone back in his coat. "It's best if I go alone. Please, don't tell anyone save from Wright-dono and wait for me at your office."

"Sure, let's just pretend I didn't hear everything," Eldoon mutters, but Blackquill ignores him.

Athena nods, but Justice seems still doubtful. "What if it's a trap?"

"Hmph. If it is, I'll soon know - and the Phantom shall pay the consequences," Blackquill says, but as he turns to leave he knows it won't be the case, that it is not a trap.

Perhaps he wasn't wrong about Fool Bright, after all.

* * *

Despite the street lamps, a great part of People's Park is surrounded in darkness by the time Blackquill reaches it. Dark and empty, it is the ideal place for a trap... or simply for a fugitive to hide.

"Fool Bright," he calls out, but he receives no answer except from the light rustling sound of leaves in the wind.

Blackquill comes to stand beneath a street light, so that he'll be easy to spot, and waits. For a while there is no sign of anyone else's presence, and he almost wonder if he should have kept his cell phone on rater than turning it off and taking out the battery. But then again, if someone truly is spying on his calls as Fool Bright fears, perhaps they would be able to track his movements as well... and Blackquill has no intention to lead any scavenger to what he considers to be _his_ prey.

He's about to try and call out again when a familiar voice rings out, causing him to recoil.

"Prosecutor Blackquill!"

Blackquill turns around and there he is, stepping out from the shadow of a tree. Under the harsh light cast by the streetlight he looks everything like a ghost, pale as he is and wearing only the white attire of the mental health facility he escaped from. There is dried blood staining his right arm's sleeve, and he's shaking violently, his clothes too thin to protect him from the night's biting cold.

And still, the moment Blackquill lays his eyes on him, he smiles.

"I... I knew you'd know where to find me," he says, shivering, and his voice is what startles Blackquill out of his surprise.

"... You're wounded."

"They... I was shot. But it's nothing. Barely got me," is the reply, but the smile is wavering, and Blackquill scoffs.

"_Fool,_" he almost snarls, stepping closer. He takes off his coat and lays it on that idiot's shoulders to shield him from the cold wind. "I expect an _explanation _for-" he adds, but he doesn't get to finish the sentence: the next moment Fool Bright is clinging to him, hands gripping his shirt and face burrowed against Blackquill's throat, cold skin pressing into his warmth.

"I didn't mean to run away, prosecutor Blackquill," Fool Bright mutters, his breath warm as his skin is icy. "I... I had to."

Blackquill, who barely had the time to lift his arms with the instinct to push him off himself, pauses. His hands linger in mid-air, inches away from his shoulders. "Fool Bright-"

"I _had_ to. I would never have escaped otherwise, you have to believe me. Please, sir," he chokes out, his voice shaking. "Please. I need you to _believe me_."

Blackquill's hands finally move, but it isn't to push him off. He finds himself holding back his shivering frame, fingers gripping the fabric of his own coat. "I believe you," he hears himself saying, something not too far away from shame in his gut for having so quickly come to the worst conclusion when he heard of his escape. Has he not just proven him wrong by turning himself right back over to him? "I do."

Fool Bright shivers once again, but Blackquill can feel him smile against his skin. "Thank you, sir._ Thank you_."

"Hmph. Silence," Blackquill says, and pulls back. "You need a safe place to stay, and someone to see to your arm. Then you'll tell me precisely what happened," he adds, adjusting his coat over Fool Bright's shoulders. It's long enough to hide most of his clothes and all of the blood, and thankfully they're only a short walk away from the Wright Anything Agency. As things are, he can think of no other safe place for him. "Come."

He does as he's told, with no questions and no hesitation. Blackquill remembers comparing the man he believed to be Detective Fulbright to a faithful dog more than once, and the same comparison comes to his mind just now, for this person who's not Detective Fulbright but doesn't know how to be anyone _else_, either.

_Not Fulbright. Fool Bright._

He doesn't voice any objection when, as they walk, he feels Fool Bright's cold fingers gripping his sleeve.


	5. Blackmail

_A/N: I apologize in advance for the cliffhanger. Next chapter is the last one though, I promise!_

* * *

"... So no need to worry, the wound is nothing much. The bullet exited it without causing much damage. Just keep it clean and change the dressing regularly, let him make no efforts and he'll be fine. But he sure whined an awful lot while I was disinfecting it. Are you _sure_ that wimp is a criminal?"

While the whole situation is surreal even by the absurd standards she is used to - the wanted criminal who murdered her mother currently sitting on a couch in the office, with a bandage on his arm and wearing her boss' old baggy clothes, devouring a bowl of noodles in salty broth - Athena can't help but be amused by Mr. Eldoon's remark.

"He's uh... a bit of a special case," she says. Despite the scathing remarks, she's rather glad Mr. Eldoon was willing to help. When Simon took him there it was clear the Phantom needed both medical attention and a hot meal, and it was a real stroke of luck that Mr Eldoon could provide him both... _and_ keep quiet about it.

"Thanks a lot for your help," Mr. Wright is saying. "This is a really complicated matter. The police or a hospital are not an option yet."

A shrug. "No problem at all, as long as you keep my name out of this," he says. "You're not gonna keep him hidden for authorities for long, are you? Would hate to lose my best clients like that. I don't think noodles work as well as pies to smuggle files inside prisons."

That causes Mr. Wright to laugh. "No need to worry, we did contact someone already. He should be here shortly," he adds.

"Him, or the police," Apollo mutters under his breath while Eldoon leaves. As they feared the Chief Prosecutor's phone may be under control - well, the Phantom feared as much - Mr. Wright had to get him to go there immediately without telling him what it was about. He had managed to drive his point across, if anything, after having to repeat several times that he _absolutely_ had to get there and see what his daughter pulled out of her panties.

If anyone _was_ indeed listening to the call, they must have been very confused and very disturbed.

"... It _does_ sound kinda creepy out of context," Athena admits as they walk back in, rather grateful of the fact Trucy is not there and didn't hear the call.

The Phantom is sitting on one of the couches, drinking the broth in slow gulps now that he's finished the noodles. From the couch right across, Simon is watching him in silence, arms crossed over his chest. He does, however, turn to them and stand when they walk in.

"You have my thanks," he says quietly. "I do realize it is not an easy position to put you in. If the police truly is involved in the assassination attempt as well, I could think of no other safe place."

Athena smiles. "Hey, no problem. I'm sure Mr. Edgeworth will help sort this out," she says, and glances at the Phantom just as he puts the now empty bowl down on the table and looks up at them. He's holding his wounded arm a bit stiffly, but the bandage is hidden beneath Mr. Wright's old sweater.

"I... I'm sorry for the trouble," he says, turning his eyes back to the floor as soon as his gaze meets Apollo's harsh one. "... Sorry," he mumbles.

Apollo turns away, the anger in his heart not escaping Athena's ears, but he says nothing. Not that any of them has to say anything more, because only moments later the doorbell rings.

"It's got to be Edgeworth. That was fast," Mr. Wright mutters. Athena shrugs.

"Sure it was. Have you _seen _his car?"

Mr. Wright ignores the quip - how many times have they made fun of his lack of a driving licence? - and goes to open the door in the next room over. They hear Edgeworth before he's even in.

"There is a dangerous criminal on the loose, Wright. Whatever it is Trucy pulled out of her magic... _undergarments _had better be extremely important. What was it that kept you from speaking like a functional adult at the phone?"

Mr. Wright laughs. "It's in the next room. Actually, it's not that he came out of Trucy's magic panties, but... guess you've been looking for him," he adds, and pushes the door open. Edgeworth is standing right beside him, and his expression turns from mild annoyance and concern into utter surprise the moment he lays his eyes on the Phantom, who seems to shrink under his gaze.

"_Him! _But how...?"

"I'm sorry, sir!" the Phantom blurts out, standing up. If the grimace on his face is of any indication his injured arm is paining him, but it doesn't keep him from speaking quickly. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to run away, I swear I didn't, I-!"

"_Silence_," Simon cuts him off, standing as well. "Keep your jabbering for yourself and let me explain. Sit."

The Phantom does exactly as he's told, a disturbingly familiar pout on his face - it looks wrong on that face, Athena thinks, so very wrong - and Simon quickly explains Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth what the Phantom already told them, and how he winded up there. By the time he's done telling him how he found him at People Park and took him there, Edgeworth's surprise has faded into thoughtfulness.

"An assassination attempt," he says slowly, and turns his gaze back to the Phantom. "According to the security, whoever shot was able to elude them; they say it was likely your accomplice in the escape."

"What- no! They tried to kill me, sir, honest! That's why I had to escape! I-" he trails off when Edgeworth raises a hand to silence him.

"Enough. I do believe you. Had you wanted to escape, you certainly wouldn't have turned yourself back to prosecutor Blackquill," he adds, and Athena can hear loud and clear the relief Phantom's heart. "Besides, the possibility you may be the target of an assassination attempt is something we have been aware of from the start. Had we known you infiltrated KB Security, we certainly would have investigated it rather than letting them handle the security of the institution you were sent in."

"I'm really sorry, sir. I didn't remember until they tried to shoot me," the Phantom says, sounding extremely ashamed.

Edgeworth sighs. "No matter. What truly worries me is that you may be correct in the assumption someone from the police department is involved. No one in that facility was supposed to know who you are. What your crimes are, yes, but as far as everyone in there is concerned you were simply a John Doe - medical staff and security included. No one but someone from the police could possibly have revealed who you are to them."

Simon lets out a hum. "I assume this means that a thorough investigation is needed in the department. We need to find out who has been passing such information around. Until we know who we can trust and who we cannot, he won't be safe under police custody. Now that their attempt at an assassination was botched, they're not likely to wait before they try again. Fool Bright," he adds, glancing at the Phantom. "How likely do you think it is that my phone or that of the Chief Prosecutor are under control?"

"I... I'm not sure. Maybe the Chief Prosecutor's isn't under control, after all..."  
"Wait, you made me pass that coded message for nothing?" Mr. Wright asks, causing Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth to roll his eyes.

"A coded message? Is that how you call the cringe-worthy string of absurdities you have uttered?"

"Hey! It got you here, didn't it?"

"Regardless," Simon speaks up, clearly refraining from snapping at his superior to be _silent_, "you do believe it likely that my own phone is."

The Phantom nods. "Yes. I... I figure they would know you're the only one I could possibly turn to."

There is something coming from Simon's heart, something that isn't quite sorrow but is not too far away; Athena has learned to read it as pity. Still, nothing shows when he speaks.

"That being the case, they would have heard us speaking. My apartment is not a safe place for you either. Wright-dono, Chief Prosecutor," he adds, turning to look at them and interrupting their bickering. "I know I am asking much, but do you believe it would be possible to keep him here for time being?"

"What?"

_"Here?_"

Unfazed by their reaction - even Apollo's especially loud one - Simon nods. "Yes. We do not yet know who we can trust in the police force. As established, my own apartment is not a safe place. He needs to be somewhere safe at least for the night, and perhaps part of tomorrow. As he was able to tell me where to find him in a way that made sense to me alone, I'm confident that no one could find and follow us - meaning that no one knows he's here.I volunteer to stay here as well through the night," he adds, clearly guessing what objections may be coming. "I have inconvenienced you enough as it is."

There are a few moments of silence as Mr. Wright and Edgeworth look at each other, then at Simon, at the Phantom - who's sitting on the couch and staring at the floor like a chastised kid - then back at Simon.

"Well..." Mr. Wright says slowly. "I wouldn't have anything against it, as long as... are you sure he won't, huh..."

Simon scoffs. "It should be obvious now that this mutt has no intention to escape," he says, barely tilting his head towards the Phantom. "There mere thought of breaking the law is likely to give him an aneurysm."

"Actually..." the Phantom says, his voice - well, Fulbright's voice - rather weak, causing everyone to turn their full attention back on him. Suddenly, Athena can sense guilt coming out of him in waves. "I... I have to confess... when I escaped..."

There is a moment of complete silence, and Athena's blood runs cold. What is it? What has he done, to feel such crushing guilt and shame? He... he hasn't killed anyone while escaping, has he? No, it cannot be! They would know if that happened, right? Right?

"Fool Bright," Simon speaks up, his voice suddenly akin to a growl. "What have you done?"

The Phantom winces and looks down. "I... when I took that guard's badge, after he tried to kill me, I... I knew I was going to need a pay phone to call prosecutor Blackquill, so..." he pauses and peers up at them, an anguished expression on his face. "I _stole _money out of his wallet, too. I'm sorry! I'm _so _sorry!"

"What... is that _all_... _Fool Bright_!"

Athena starts laughing. She just can't help it, because she can't tell what's best between Simon's furious and yet relieved sputtering, the Phantom's whimpering apologies, Mr. Wright's stunned expression and the way Mr. Edgeworth presses a hand over his face. She just laughs for a whole minute, unable to stop - and she could swear that, at some point, even Apollo chuckled into his hand.

* * *

While a night of deep, restoring sleep was by far not what Blackquill expected - he knew that no matter how safe he believes they are, he knew he would have to keep an eye open and be on the lookout for anything unusual - nothing could have prepared him for the dreadful snoring that is filling the whole office.

That is a trait he's taken from the real Fulbright, it has to be. It's hard to imagine a skilled international spy snoring like a chainsaw in his sleep.

_Not that there seems to be much left of whoever that spy has been_.

With a sigh, Blackquill sits up on the couch and glares at the vague outline of a sleeping form he can see on the couch across his own in the dim light coming from the window.

"_Tch_. I have to wonder if the assassination attempt wasn't simply a desperate inmate's attempt at silencing you at night," he mutters, and stands. There is another couch in the next room over, he recalls, right by the entrance; perhaps this will be more bearable with a closed door behind them, he thinks.

Either way, he will never find out: he has barely taken a couple of steps when the snoring stops suddenly, as though a switch has been flipped, and something else rings out - a loud gasp.

Blackquill turns to see Fool Bright's form shifting on the couch.

"No," he chokes out, his breathing fast. "No, stop,_ stop.._.!"

"Fool Bright?" Blackquill calls out, stepping closer. He's not awake, he realizes, and he's talking in his sleep, tossing and turning as though trapped in a nightmare.

"_Nhhh_...!"

"Fool-"

_"NO!"_

There is a thud as Fool Bright falls off the couch, followed by a pained yelp. That dotard must have landed on his injured arm, Blackquill thinks, slamming his hand on the light switch. The sudden light causes him to narrow his eyes and Fool Bright to wince and shut his eyes. He's landed in a heap on the floor next to the couch, dragging the blanket down with him, and now he's kneeling on the floor, holding his arm. He's breathing fast, his back shuddering; from above, Blackquill can see clearly the bald spots on his head where he's damaged his scalp so badly the hair won't ever grow back.

He's almost as much of a pathetic sight as he was through his confession.

"Hmph. You dotard," Blackquill mutters, walking up to the couch and crouching before him. "Let me see your-" he adds, but he trails off when, much like before, Fool Bright clings to him and tucks his face against his neck.

This is starting to turn into a truly aggravating habit.

"Prosecutor Blackquill," he breathes, shaking.

"... If anything _my_ name is not lost to you," Blackquill says stiffly, but makes no attempt to push him away. "What was the ruckus about?"

"I... A nightmare, I guess."

"You guess?"

"I can't remember. I never remember them," Fool Bright says, taking in and then releasing a long breath. "I'm... sorry I woke you up."

"Tch. Your outrageous snoring kept me from falling asleep in the first place," Blackquill says, and finally pulls back. He helps him stand and then sit on the couch before sitting next to him. "Let me look at your arm."

"There is no need-"

"That was not a _request_, Fool Bright."

That is enough to make him stop whining, if anything, and he lets Blackquill open the sweater - it's odd, trying to imagine Wright-dono wearing such an attire - and push it off him just enough to check the bandage. There is no blood marring its whiteness; the wound doesn't seem to have reopened.

"I'm fine," Fool Bright says, zipping up the sweater again. "I'm... I'm just thirsty."

"Then stop looking at me like a beaten mutt and go get some water," Blackquill scoffs. "I'll make sure you don't fall off like a toddler again," he adds, and starts moving the table between couches out of the way, paying no more mind to Fool Bright as he slinks to get some water, gaze held low. There is the sound of running water and the clinking of glass, and he's back less than a minute later. By then Blackquill is done joining the two couches, making it impossible for that _dolt_ to fall off again in his sleep. Last thing they need to worry about is a reopened wound.

"Prosecutor Blackquill..." Fool Bright calls out, but Blackquill silences him with an annoyed gesture of his hand. He's too tired to listen to his bleating now.

"Go back to sleep. I'll be in the next room," he adds. The couch there is narrower, but no worse than the cot he grew used to in prison and certainly softer. It will do. "Snore once again as you did before and I'll cut you down sooner than-"

"I _lied_ to you," Fool Bright speaks out, his voice shaking, and it's enough for Blackquill to stop dead in his tracks.

"Lied to me?" he repeats, turning back. Fool Bright is standing next to the couches, avoiding his gaze, and it's with some measure of surprise that Blackquill notices his eyes are filled with tears he seems to be trying his hardest not to shed. It is an eerie sight, and so unlike the waterworks he's used to. It's more similar to the silent tears he shed when he understood, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was not who he thought he was. "... Fool Bright. What have you lied about?"

For a few moment, Fool Bright says nothing. He sits on one of the couches and leans against the backrest, holding his knees up to his chest, arms folded around them; it reminds Blackquill uncomfortably of when he had to wear a straightjacket to keep him from lashing out on himself. He has to wonder if he was put on some sort of medication while in the mental health facility; if so, its effect must have ran out. Is he experiencing withdrawal?

"You... you're really here, aren't you?" he finally speaks, his voice weak. "I'm not imagining all of this, am I?"

For a moment Blackquill almost asks him if he hit his head as well when he fell off the couch, but he stops himself just in time when realization kicks in. All things considered, the question is not quite as idiotic as it sounds like. The man before him recently found out he is not the person he believed he was; everything he believed real turned out to be a lie. It's no wonder he has to be questioning his own grasp on reality.

"... I am here," Blackquill finally speaks, and walks up to the couches to sit right across Fool Bright. "Do not presume to dismiss me as a figment of your imagination. Am I correct in the assumption that this question is due to whatever twisted nightmare you had?"

Fool Bright nods, some tears finally sliding down a face Blackquill still cannot gaze upon without bitterness. The deep scratches he inflicted upon himself have faded, but some faint lines are still visible on pale skin. "Yes, sir. I... I dreamed of your execution."

Something about those words makes Blackquill's stomach clench. He may have been willing to give his life for Athena's safety, but willingness did nothing to lessen his fear of death - and he cannot forget how he was snatched from Death's maw a mere day before the due date. It was close, far too close for comfort. Still, he lets none of his thoughts show.

"That execution never happened, Fool Bright."

"But it almost did, and it was because of me," Fool Bright says, not looking up at him, and his voice shakes. "I... I dreamed you were on the gallows, sir, and they were putting the noose around your neck, and..." he pauses, his breath hitching, but he resumes speaking. "I tried to stop them, prosecutor Blackquill, I _did_. I screamed that you did not do it, I tried to confess, but it was like no one could hear me. They couldn't even see me, they all looked straight through me like I was a... a..."

"... A ghost," Blackquill says quietly.

There is a choked back sob, and a nod. "I tried to stop them, but there was nothing I could do. And when the trapdoor opened, I-"

"_Silence_," Blackquill cuts him off. He has heard enough, he truly has. "None of it was real, Fool Bright. I was never executed. If you cannot trust your own grip on reality, trust mine. _I am here. _I'm not going anywhere," he adds, entirely discarding the idea of sleeping on the couch in the next room over. He picks up a small object he has found under one of the couch's pillows - a plastic carrot he assumes is part of Trucy Wright's magic show - and throws it towards the opposite wall. It hits the light switch, causing the room to fall in darkness. "Now get some sleep, Fool Bright. Or stay awake and let me sleep. Whichever suits you best."

Apparently, what suits Fool Bright best is resting down close to him; so close, in fact, that they're actually touching. Blackquill considers voicing a protest, but he decides against it. If that helps keeping that dotard grounded to reality - a reality in which he's alive and well - then perhaps it will spare him further nightmares.

"It goes without saying that I _shall _cut you down if you resume snoring," he says once they've settled down, and Fool Bright lets out a small chuckle.

"Heh. Thank you, sir," he murmurs, and Blackquill snorts, saying nothing more.

This time, no snoring nor nightmares disturb either of their sleep. When Fool Bright shifts in his sleep, coming to rest his head and wounded arm across his chest, Blackquill doesn't even stir.

* * *

"... Huh."

"Ah."

"... Think we should wake them up, or...?"

"To tell you the truth, I'd sooner walk out and pretend I didn't see anything..."

While he doesn't quite grasp the words, the voices are enough to rouse Blackquill from his slumber. For just a moment he wonders what in the world are Athena and Justice doing in his house; then his mind clears up some, just enough to remember where he is... and why.

With a low grunt, Blackquill opens his eyes - only to narrow them against the light coming from the window. Still, he can see Athena and Justice standing at the door, looking rather puzzled.

"Is something the matter?" Blackquill asks, and sits up. Or, at least, he tries to - but he cannot quite manage, an unexpected weight on his chest. What in the blazes...?

Blackquill looks down and, for a moment, he can only stare, his voice trapped in his throat.

It doesn't stay trapped for long.

_"FOOL BRIGHT!"_

_"Eek!"_

Jerked awake by Blackquill's bellow, Fool Bright immediately scrambles back, blinking quickly and trying to regain bearing of his surroundings. Not that Blackquill is merciful enough to give him much time to.

"What in the blazes did you think you were _doing_, clinging to me like a... a... what did you think you were doing!"

"Sorry! I'm sorry! I was sleeping! I didn't realize-!"

"I ought to cut you down here and now!" Blackquill snarls, causing Fool Bright to wince and raise his arms over his head to shield himself - only that the movement makes him yelp, and he drops his wounded arm. Part of his outrage fading into concern, Blackquill makes an effort to calm down and scoffs. "Hmph. See that you don't make yourself bleed before I can cut your flesh," he mutters. "Don't you ever-"

"Er... Simon?"

Oh. Right. Athena and Justice are standing right there.

"... I do apologize for the scene. _Someone_ clearly has no idea what is proper and what is not," he says, standing. Justice is still eyeing at the joined couches, clearly wondering what that is about, but Blackquill is not about to answer his unexpressed question. He has no place to tell anyone about the demons Fool Bright battles in his sleep. "You're earlier than expected," he adds.

The previous evening it was agreed that Blackquill would return to his office as normal the next day, to keep anyone from wondering where he went, while Fool Bright would stay at the Agency for a while longer - until they figured out who they could trust within the police force and had him collected to be taken somewhere safe and guarded, with utmost discretion.

The fact Fool Bright has no intention at all to escape makes everything so much easier.

"Now I kinda wish we weren't," Justice mutters under his breath. Blackquill ignores him.

"Isn't Wright-dono with you?"

Athena shrugs. "He got a case, a really big one. The defendant's mother came all the way to his home address to talk to him about it - she was really desperate. He and Trucy are on it, though, so Apollo and I can stay here until Mr. Edgeworth sends out someone trustworthy to help," she adds, and gives Fool Bright a smile. "Feeling any better?"

Fool Bright smiles back, but he still seems rather sheepish. "Uh... yes. Much better, thanks."

"Wunderbar! I got you guys some breakfast on the way", she adds, holding up a couple of paper bags. "Hope you like- hey, going already?"

"Yes," Blackquill says shortly, putting on his coat and reaching down for his boots. "Taka is probably waiting for me at my office by now, and he'll be hungry. I neglected to feed him yesterday," he adds. Truth be told, Taka is very likely to have hunted for his dinner himself and Fool Bright's phone forced him to change his plans for the evening, but the fact still stands that he's neglected his responsibilities towards Taka.

That, and he doesn't want to be in the same room as Fool Bright for any longer than he needs to. He accepts the paper bag Athena is handing to him, thanks her and Justice for their trouble again, and leaves without another word, barely glancing at Fulbright and entirely ignoring the way he avoids his gaze.

He will often look back to that moment later on, will often wonder what he could have told him rather than leaving without even a word.

And he will regret not trying.

* * *

Footsteps. A voice he's heard only in recordings until now.

A key turning in the lock and the the door opens, conveniently hiding him from sight as Prosecutor Blackquill steps inside his office.

A punctual man. A trait he'd appreciate, if there was any time for that. Except that there is not - he needs to act just at the right moment.

Blackquill pushes the door closed, giving him his back. He doesn't look behind, doesn't think he has any reason to. And there it _is_, the right moment.

_"Freeze."_

Prosecutor Blackquill immediately stills, tensing, as he feels something pressing against his back. He's an intelligent man; he certainly can tell what it is. Still, no reason not to make it known, so that they both know precisely where they stand.

"It is a pleasure to finally meet you, although I realize you may not feel the same. What you feel against your back is, obviously, a gun. In my other hand, I hold a remote. One press of a button, and the Chief Prosecutor's office blows up with him in it. If not for your life, you'll do as I say for _his_."

Blackquill doesn't move nor turn. When he speaks, his voice is pure poison.

"_Tch_. A gun to the back and blackmail. A coward's tricks."

"To each their role, my friend. A _brave _spy would only be good at rushing to an early, if heroic, death."

"I'm no friend of yours. Who are you?"

"Bond. James Bond," the man replies, some actual mirth showing in his voice. This one never gets old, does it now?

A scoff tells him that Blackquill didn't appreciate it. Quite humorless, this one. "Is that meant to amuse me?"

"Oh, very well. We'll go with Jim Smith, then."

"You're not even _trying_, are you?"

"Why should I? Any name I may give you would obviously not be my own. It is a name. It will do - no need to pretend there is any truth to it. What you should concern yourself with now is what I want you to do," the man who'll call himself Jim Smith for just another while says. "I want you to make a phone call to our mutual _friend_, Blackquill. Now."

* * *

"Hey, Ph- er, Bobby? It's Simon. Here."

Bobby looks up from the metal rings he's been trying to separate for a while - how _can_ Trucy Wright do it? He just can't figure out where the trick is - to see Athena Cykes standing before him, holding out the office's cordless phone. He blinks, wondering why would prosecutor Blackquill call not even half a hour after leaving, but he nods and takes the phone.

"Thanks."

"De nada," she says with a shrug, turning to go back to the next room. She and Justice are staying there, both to avoid him - Justice will never cease hating him, Bobby suspects; and who could blame him? - and to watch the door, just in case.

"Prosecutor?" Bobby says, bringing the phone up to his ear. "What is it? If it's about last night, I _swear_ I was just sleeping! I didn't realize I had moved-"

"_Silence_," Blackquill cuts him off. "Is Athena there?"

"Huh? No, she's in the next room over. Do you want to talk to her? But you just-"

"Keep your voice down. What I'm about to say is meant for your ears alone," Blackquill cuts him off once again. "Is the door between you closed?"

"Yes," Bobby replies, keeping his voice down as instructed, his confusion only growing. What is this about? "Is... is something the matter?"

There is a moment of silence before Blackquill speaks again. "I need you to come here as soon as possible. Alone."

"But I'm supposed to wait here-"

"Fool Bright. I need yo to do as I say. You're... not safe there. I can't tell you the details by phone - we need to meet face to face as soon as possible. You trust me, do you not?"

"Of course I do!"

Another moment of silence, something that sounds like an especially deep breath. "Then listen closely and do as I say. I need you to meet me at the fountain near the courthouse. The one you can see from my office's window, remember?"

Of course Bobby remembers. They have shared a few lunches there since Blackquill's release, especially when the weather was hot and Taka would enjoy a bath. "Sure."

"Good. Come at the fountain and, if you don't find me there, wait for me. I'll reach you as soon as I can and explain everything. And, Fool Bright - you absolutely must come _alone_. Make sure no one follows you. Tell no one where you're going."

Bobby frowns. "But what about Cykes and Justice? They're right here, and I don't think they'd let me-"

"Fool Bright. You know how to render an unarmed civilian unconscious without having to visit harm upon them, I trust?"

Something in Bobby's chest tightens. Prosecutor Blackquill can't possibly be asking him what it sounds like he's asking him, right? With _Cykes_, of all people? "Prosecutor, you can't mean-"

"You understood _precisely_ what I mean. Do not harm either of them. But if incapacitating them for a time is what it takes for you to get out of there undetected, so be it."

"But, sir-"

_"That is an order, Fool Bright!"_

Bobby winces, the objection he was about to voice dying in his throat. There is a long moment of silence, then it's Blackquill to speak again.

"... I need you to _trust_ me, and do as I say," he says slowly. "Get out of there. Make sure no one follows you. Get to the fountain as quickly as you can. I'll explain everything soon. You have my word."

Overwhelmed as he is by what's going on, Bobby fails to pick up the bitterness in those last few words. "I... alright, sir. I'll be there as soon as possible."

"Good. Do not cause them harm."

"I never would, sir!"

"... Yes. I know that," Blackquill says, and hangs up the phone. Bobby stays still for a few moments before he sighs and takes the phone off his ear.

He stares down at it for a few moments, then he swallows and turns it over to take out the batteries. He shoves them in his pocket and stands, coming to step at the door between him and the front room, where Cykes and Justice are.

With a deep breath, he reaches to knock. "Uh... I think there is a problem with the phone," he calls out, opening the door. Both Cykes and Justice, who are at the front desk looking at some video playing on the screen of Cykes' cell phone, look up at him. As usual, her expression is much friendlier than his. It makes Bobby even less willing, if possible, to go ahead with his task.

_I need you to trust me, and do as I say_.

"What's wrong with it?" Cykes asks, stepping closer, and Justice stands as well, not too far behind. She frowns, and he can tell she's listening to his heart. "Hey, is Simon alright? Why are you _scared_?"

"I... no, I think he's fine, it's just... he did sound odd," Bobby says, fully knowing that he can't let her think she's lying, not now. And, to be fair, he is not lying. Blackquill did sound very odd. "And then phone is not working now," he adds, holding it out. It's another obvious and truthful statement - it really is not working now, regardless the reason - so she doesn't hear anything wrong in the voice of his heart and just reaches to take the phone.

"Huh, he's right. Looks like it's dead," she mutters, turning a bit. Justice is right beside her now, looking down at the phone. Neither of them is paying attention to him now... and they both are just close enough.

"Maybe if you turn it off and then on again...?"

"How do I turn it off if it's _already_ off?"

"Oh, right. Maybe it's-"

Bobby moves quickly, before either of them can realize what's going on. He's not certain whose training this is - Fulbright's or his own, whoever _he_ is? - but the fact stands that he knows precisely what to do. He reaches out, places a hand at the base of each of their necks, and presses his thumbs down on what he _knows_ is the right spot.

It works right away: they have barely the time to look up from the phone before their gazes go vacant, their heads drop and their knees give in, causing them to slump on the ground. Bobby catches each of them by their waist to spare them a bad fall, ignoring the way his injured arm screams in pain under Athena Cykes' weight.

"Sorry. I'm really sorry," he says, leaning them down as gently as he can. They're both unconscious, but they'll be fine, and... and maybe they'll understand, once prosecutor Blackquill explains all of them what is going on.

_I'll explain everything soon. You have my word_.

With a sigh, Bobby stands, discarding the idea of leaning them on the couches. He'd like to, but Blackquill told him to get there as soon as possible... that, and he now he cannot waste time.

_Apollo and I can stay here until Mr. Edgeworth sends out someone trustworthy to help_.

_I have to go before anyone shows up_.

With one last glance at the motionless forms on the floor, Bobby walks up to the door and leaves quickly, almost running down the stairs.

He doesn't get to go very far.

"Hey! Where do you think you're _going_?"

He knows that voice, and he knows the man it belongs to - he knows him _very_ well. With a sudden sense of dread, Bobby freezes in mid-step and looks down. There, only a few steps beneath him, is the _trustworthy person_ the Chief Prosecutor must have sent to keep an eye on him along with Cykes and Justice. One of the very few in the police department that Miles Edgeworth knows he can trust without a doubt... and one of Bobby Fulbright's closest friends.

_One of my closest friends._

_No. Not yours. You are not Bobby Fulbright. You murdered him_.

"Stay right where you are!" Dick Gumshoe snarls, a hand reaching for pocket and coming out with a taser. It crackles with electricity when he holds it before him and stands firm, blocking his only way out.

"Dick, I-"

"Don't," Gumshoe grits out, but something in his voice sounds strained, and his hand shakes slightly. "Don't use my name. Don't use his _voice_."

_I have no other voice left to use_.

"Please, wait," Bobby pleads, holding up his hands. His injured arm is hurting, a dull throb of pain, but he forces himself to ignore it. "You don't understand. I _have_ to-"

"Where are the kids?" Gumshoe snaps, going up a couple of steps and causing Bobby to go up as well to keep some distance. He glances past Bobby, up the stairs where the office is. There is fear as well as anger in his voice now.

_There is no time for this. Make him snap. Make him move_.

"What have you _done _to them?"

Nothing, Bobby wants to say, but when he opens his mouth the answer that leaves him is completely different... and so is the voice, colder and flatter than Fulbright's ever was.

"What do you think I did? I killed them like I killed Fulbright. You made it here just a minute too late."

Gumshoe's eyes widen, the fear replaced by pure horror for a moment before anger replaces anything else, all rational thought. He runs up the few steps between them with a cry, the taser raised to strike.

But he's too furious. Too anguished. He's not thinking.

He has no chance.

The Phantom steps aside, the taser narrowly missing him, and grasps Gumshoe's wrist, twisting it back. There is a cry of pain, and the taser falls. What comes next follows with almost no effort and no thought, training - _whose training?_ \- doing the rest. There is the crackle of electricity, then a cry, and Detective Dick Gumshoe slumps down on the stairs, unconscious.

But he's fine, Bobby thinks, dropping the taser as though it just gave him a jolt as well. He'll be fine. He didn't hurt him _much_.

"I'm _so _sorry. I must go alone," Bobby says, the voice coming from his mouth once again Fulbright's, and he runs down the stairs and outside as quickly as he can. He must do as prosecutor Blackquill said, is all he can think, and then he'll explain him everything. There must be a good reason for this, he thinks as he keeps running.

There _must_ be.


	6. In Justice We Trust

_A/N: And here's the last chapter. More notes and overall apology to the universe at the end.  
(If you have read Turnabout Outbreak and think "Smith" sounds familiar, yep. You're right.)  
_

* * *

"I take it my phone was under surveillance, after all."

"Obviously. Still, it didn't help us much, as the two of you apparently had some kind of code to communicate. Well played, by the way. A shame your trick ended up forcing me to use you like this to get him out of hiding."

"So you were behind the assassination attempt."

"I may or may not have been involved, and I may or may not have provided the sniper. A disappointing one at that, I'm ashamed to say. But no matter - he'll have his occasion to make up for the mistake today. He should be settling on the roof of the building right across the road as we speak."

Blackquill clenches his jaw, but he doesn't turn to look out of the window. He knows that trying to see the sniper from where he stands would be useless, and he doesn't want to take his eyes off that man for one moment. There might be an opening, he thinks, there _must _be an opening, a moment of distraction. And once he can seize that moment...!

"Why, there is no need to glare at me like that. You should thank me, if anything. I'm doing both of you a favor, all things considered."

Blackquill scoffs. "You have some nerve, I'll give you that," he says, still glaring death at the man sitting on his office's couch. He about as tall as he is, but lankier, with slicked-back dark hair barely shot through with gray on the temples. He seems to be in his early fifties, Blackquill thinks, but it's hard to tell much else about him. "Murdering someone hardly counts as a _favor_."

The man - Smith, as he calls himself - gives a low chuckle. His attitude is friendly, unsettingly so, but no matter how laid back he looks and sounds: the gun stays pointed at him all the time, and his thumb never leaves the remote's button.

"I'm not murdering anyone. There is _no one_ to murder. If there ever was anyone to murder, then his blood is on your own hands."

"You're _raving_."

"Am I?" the man asks, tilting his head on one side. "You don't seem to realize that his undoing is your work. You first painted a target on his back nine years ago, prosecutor Blackquill. When you seized that sample of his voice and had it analyzed to get a psych profile out of it. An exposed spy is as good as dead, my friend. It's simple as that. With such evidence in your hands, the very life of the one you then called Phantom was on the line. You held proof that needed to disappear. Had that proof never existed... well, you can imagine all too well how many things would never have happened. And, of course, you put him in danger the moment you confronted him. The moment you exposed him, and tore that mask off his head."

Blackquill lets out a noise that comes very close to a snarl. "Am I to apologize for doing my _duty _as a prosecutor?" he asks. Truth be told, the one thing he truly regrets is ever involving Metis Cykes. He had not known, then, that the Phantom knew of the sample of his voice he had seized; he couldn't imagine what he was putting into motion, what danger he'd expose his mentor to.

Smith shakes his head. "Oh, no. Not at all. As I said before, to each their role. It was your job to go after him. There is no blaming you for that. But it put the Phantom in danger, and that is a fact. Had you not held onto that profile for so long, he wouldn't have needed to keep Fulbright's mask up for so long he forgot being someone else. That is another fact. Although..." he paused, and gives a smile that seems almost bitter. "... I do have a share of blame, I suppose. I should have realized he had gone on too long in that role. I should have known he may wind up trapped in it; I should have put a stop to it and have him called back for recalibration."

"Recalibration," Blackquill finds himself repeating, his face twisted in a scowl. It reminds me of how his sister would talk of the robots she built. "You speak as though he's some kind of instrument."

"That's what he _was_. And he was perfect, let me tell you, before you got in the picture," Smith replies, and for just a moment Blackquill thinks he just detected a hint of anger in his voice. But then the man smiles again, and he's left to wonder if he imagined it. "He's a _broken _instrument now. That is why I'm not murdering anyone, can't you see? I'm merely pulling a plug. Exorcising a ghost. As I said, I'm doing both of you a favor. Oh, don't look at me like that!" he adds with a laugh when Blackquill glares death at him. "I'm speaking the truth. You're only refusing to see it, prosecutor Blackquill. I would have expected better from you. You have a pet hawk, don't you?"

_Taka_.

Realization causes Blackquill's heart to seemingly skip a beat. Taka always shows at his window at nine thirty to be fed. What time is it now? Will he get here before Fool Bright reaches the meeting point he was forced to give him? If he does, then perhaps there is a chance yet.

A chance.

Letting none of such thoughts show, Blackquill speaks slowly. "What of him?"

"Such a wonderful animal. I wonder, have you trained him yourself? Have you ever marveled at the strength of his wings and the keenness of his eyes, the swift dive and the sharp talons?"

"Tch. Are you trying to be poetic now?"

A laugh. "Shouldn't quit my day job, huh?"

"Oh, you _should_."

"Hah! After this deed is done, perhaps," Smith says with another chuckle, then he seems to sober up. "Now, for the sake of argument, imagine that your hawk lost all of this. Imagine his wings were clipped his beak sealed shut. Imagine someone took out his eyes and claws. What would you do, then?"

Blackquill's gaze darkens. "I'd find whoever did a such thing and cut them down without mercy."

"I'm sure you would. But then, what of your hawk? Would you let him live like that, Blackquill? A weak and broken thing that may as well think he's one of the rats he used to hunt? Or would you put him out of his misery?"

The comparison makes something clench in Blackquill's stomach. "Your comparison is nowhere as fitting as you seem to think. Fool- _he _is not as broken as you make him out to be," he says, but there is an uncomfortable thought in the back of his mind that neither he's unbroken. He clearly is - he lost his own personality and _self_, so how could he not be? He's trapped in a mindset that is not his own, in the mind of a dead man, everything that may have been _him _gone.

_He remembers nothing. He made Fulbright's personality, memories and beliefs his own. If that's not what makes a person, what does?_

_Would I choose death, if faced with such a fate?_

The thought chills him to the bone, but he has no time to dwell in it further - because the next moment something reaches his ears, a flapping noise he knows well... and he knows he has to act fast, that this may be his only chance to stop this madman.

He looks back at Smith and, finally, he smirks. "... A compelling argument, I'll give you that," he says, reaching up to rub his chin. "However, there is something you have overlooked."

Smith raises an eyebrow. "And that something is...?"

"_Taka_," Blackquill says, and then he moves quickly, he _has _to move quickly, and everything becomes a blur. He spits out the feather that's been hanging from his lips, pushes the fingers he lifted to rub his chin into his mouth, and lets out a high whistle. The very same moment his _other _hand cuts through the hair, swift and sure.

He has one split of a second to enjoy the surprised expression on Smith's face, the way the remote control flies out of his hand to hit the floor behind him with a clatter; one split of a second to smirk as the gun moves to aim towards him. Then Taka bursts in through the open window like lighting of shrieking fury, straight at him like he's aiming for prey, and that's when Blackquill knows he's won his gamble.

There is a cry and a gunshot, but the bullet embeds itself on the wall a good distance away from Blackquill. Taka is hanging on his face, talons cutting deep in his flesh, blood blinding him, and he cannot shoot him without putting a bullet in his own head.

_He's lost._

Blackquill slices through the air once again, and the gun is torn from Smith's grasp the very moment his office's door bursts open and three officers run in, clearly called in by the scream and the gunshot. There is no time for Blackquill to wonder whether or not these three officers in particular can be trusted: he can only _hope _as much.

"Restrain this man!" he barks, and to his utter relief the three men are on Smith as one. As Taka lets go of him to fly on his shoulder, Blackquill goes to pick up the remote that, as far as he was told, would activate a bomb hidden in the Chief Prosecutor's office. He stares at it for one moment before putting it in his pocket, not quite trusting anyone with it just yet, and turns. Smith has been overpowered now, three men holding him face down on the floor, and it pleases Blackquill immensely to see that his face is a ruin of blood, one eye shut with a deep gash across it and one ear almost entirely severed.

"Taka doesn't take it kindly when someone threatens him," he says, walking before him. Smith looks up at him with the only eye he has left, all pretense of friendliness gone, nothing but hatred showing on his ruined face... but then his eye shifts to look behind Blackquill, up towards the window, and the hateful expression changes into something that makes Blackquill's blood run cold.

_Triumph_.

Blackquill turns, and there - on a balcony of the building right across the square where the fountain is - he can see something poking out, something he immediately recognizes as a rifle's barrel, pointed downwards where he knows the fountain is. It is the sniper, and he's taking aim.

There is some sudden commotion behind him, one of the officers lets out a curse and another yells - _"What the hell did he just eat?"_ \- but Blackquill is deaf to all of it. He runs to the window, an arm pointing straight at the sniper, and shouts.

_"TAKA!"_

Taka shoots out of the window as an arrow, aiming straight for the sniper, and Blackquill's eyes turn down to the fountain, where he told Fool Bright to show himself. He can find him easily, even though he had enough sense to pull the sweater's hood up over his head, because he's looking around and it's so painfully _obvious _that he's looking for someone. The hood may have kept the sniper from shooting right away, but his behavior gives him away so utterly that there is no chance he'll hesitate for much longer.

But Blackquill doesn't mean to give him one more moment, and neither does Taka. He flies straight at the gun's barrel, and Blackquill can't hold back a smile when he sees him tearing it out of the sniper's grasp and flying off, the rifle clutched in his talons. It is only then that he breathes again... and it's only then that the noises and words behind him seem to reach his ears once more.

Chocking noises, and an officer's dismayed words.

"I... I think he's dying! Go call and ambulance!"

Blackquill turns to see that the officers have stepped away from Smith, who's now convulsing on the floor, froth coming out of his mouth to mix with the blood. Suddenly, something he heard as he ran to the window makes sense.

_What the hell did he just eat?_

Poison, he thinks. Cowards cannot stand being captured alive. But he shall not let him die thinking he has won.

Blackquill scoffs, crouches before him and grasps his hair to force him to look up at him. The man's only eye is widened, and he can tell he's still aware, that he can still understand him.

Good.

"You have failed," Blackquill says, a vicious satisfaction making his voice sound like a growl. "He _lives_."

Smith's features twist in what Blackquill recognizes as fury, veins in his neck bulging as he tries to open his mouth and speak, but Blackquill cares not for anything he may have to say. He lets go of Smith's hair, lets his head drop back on the floor, and looks at the officers.

"Call an ambulance if you wish. It shall make no difference. Send someone to lock down the building right across the square - there is a sniper hiding in it," he says, and rushes out of his office without waiting for a reply, without listening to their questions. There is someone else now who needs an explanation, and to be brought to safety. There is no time for him to explain... nor to realize that, as he rushes out of the building, he's being followed.

* * *

"Fool Bright!"

Prosecutor's Blackquill's voice is, by far, the most welcomed sound that's ever reaches his ears.

Blood still rushing in his ears and panting from effort - he ran all the way from the Wright Anything Agency, telling himself over and over that Blackquill would explain him everything, that he would explain everyone that he didn't want to escape, that he just did what he had to do - Bobby immediately turns to see Blackquill running up to him.

He smiles, his confusion and worry giving way to relief. "Prosecutor Black-" he starts, only to trail off when Blackquill reaches to grab him and pulls him close, fingers digging in his shoulders almost hard enough to hurt. Almost, because surprise is too great for Bobby to focus on anything else. "Sir...?"

"You're alright," Blackquill mutters, his own breathing ragged as though he's come running as well, and he pulls back - but his hands stay on Bobby's shoulders. "We have to move away from here. This is a set-up. Follow me," he adds, and grabs his sleeve. He starts walking quickly, pulling him along as Bobby's head still reels in confusion. A few passer-byes are giving them curious glances, but they don't seem to hold their interest for much longer than a moment.

"A... a set-up? But you said-"

"I baited you into it. A sniper was meant to assassinate you where you stood."

Bobby finds himself unable to keep walking, his legs and inside turning into lead, confusion giving way to dread. Is that what the call has been about? Has prosecutor Blackquill knowingly baited him into a trap? "Sir...?" he calls out, his voice shaking, but then Blackquill turns to him and, for the first time, he seems unable to hold his gaze.

"... A man ambushed me in my office. He would have set off a bomb had I refused to make that phone call to get your were he wanted. I... do apologize. But now I need you to follow me," he adds, looking back at him once again. "That man and the sniper were both neutralized, but there may be more of _them_ around. We need to move away from here."

Some of the dread in Bobby's chest melts away. _Of course _Blackquill set him up because he was forced to – he would have never baited him into a trap otherwise, would have never tried to have him murdered. All of a sudden, he's ashamed he even thought it possible for one moment.

"I... sure," Bobby says, and resumes following Blackquill, who's heading off the square and, he assumes, back towards the Wright Anything Agency. "I, uh... I had to take down Dick, too. I mean, Detective Gumshoe. I gave him a pretty strong jolt, and... I think I'm in trouble now," he adds. His throat tightens a bit at the thought of what he's done to him, of the raw pain in his expression when he snarled at him not to use Bobby Fulbright's voice, of the horror in his eyes when he made him believe he had murdered both Cykes and Justice.

_He believed that right away. He thinks me a monster._

_I am a monster. I am a murderer_.

"Don't concern yourself. I shall explain everything. Are Athena and Justice-dono alright?"

"Yes! I didn't hurt them, I swear!"

"Hmph. No need to fret. I do believe you."

"You're the only one who does," Bobby chokes out, and Blackquill suddenly stops walking, turning to look at him. Bobby only realizes he's weeping now that he tries to look back at him and his vision is too blurry to make out his features. He blinks, and something slides down his face.

"... Fool Bright. Calm yourself. I told you I'm going to explain everything-"

"I am a _murderer_, and people are still getting hurt because of me," Bobby cuts him off, his voice shaking. There is a dull pain in his chest, where his heart should be, like the throb of an infected wound. "It's never going to end - this is going to happen again. I'm... I'm more trouble than I'm worth."

For a moment, Blackquill says nothing: he simply stares down at him. When he speaks, his voice is slow and deliberate. "Detective Fulbright would not agree."

"Detective Fulbright is _dead_. I killed him. I killed so many people, and-"

"And _what_, Fool Bright?" Blackquill snaps, reaching to grasp his shoulders and startling Bobby into silence. "You murdered Detective Fulbright. Do not dare presume you were also able to murder what he _stood _for. Do you expect me to give up on you? Balderdash. You should know me better than that."

Bobby opens his mouth, but he finds himself unable to speak for a few moments. The ache in his chest is still there, but it doesn't feel so oppressive now. Blackquill's words, harsh as they may be, did not fail to help him in his bleakest moment... and they're not failing to help now.

_I will not leave you alone to face what comes next._

_Do you think I'm in the habit of wasting my time on lost causes, Fool Bright?_

_If you cannot trust your own grip on reality, trust mine. I am here. I'm not going anywhere_.

Bobby manages to smile, swallowing the lump in his throat. "... Thank you, sir. I-" he starts, but it is a a sentence he'll never get to finish, because the next moment he catches sight of something behind Blackquill - _someone_, walking up to them, eyes fixed on Blackquill's back. A man wearing a rather unremarkable jogging clothes, a hand digging under the sweatshirt... and with a face that Bobby recognizes in a split of a second.

The nurse from the institution, the one who took him outside, _the one who set him up for the sniper to strike down_.

Realization kicks in the very same moment the man pulls something black and gleaming, the moment he points it against Blackquill's unguarded back with a scowl, and Bobby acts out without thinking. There is no _time _to think - there is only enough time to grasp Blackquill's shoulders and to spin, pushing him out of the way and shielding him in the same motion.

The surprised gasp that leaves Blackquill is covered by a loud bang. There are other noises afterwards – a yell, the sounds of a struggle, another scream – but Bobby hears none of it. His legs give in and then there is nothing he can hear or feel, nothing but warm wetness spreading across his back, Blackquill's arms around him and his voice, calling out the closest thing he can recall ever having to a name of his own.

_Fool Bright._

* * *

"Fool Bright…!"

As Fool Bright falls and he sinks on the ground with him, holding tight, Blackquill can hardly bring himself to care what is going on around them. Someone tried to shoot him, is all he knows, and Fool Bright got in the way. He's barely aware of the fact Detective Gumshoe is suddenly there, charging up at the shooter, yanking the gun off his grasp and wrestling him to the ground.

He should stand, part of him knows. He should help him.

He can't bring himself to do either. There is nothing that matters now but himself and Fool Bright, his weight of him and the warmth of blood soaking through his clothes and pooling on the ground. Blackquill puts an arm around his shoulders to hold his upper body up, to let him rest his head against his shoulder. Fool Bright's breathing is coming in short gasps, his eyes shut.

"Fool Bright!" Blackquill calls out again, his voice louder, the sense of unreality fading to make way to the harsh, cold realization that the goddamn _dotard_ got himself shot in his place.

With a shudder, Fool Bright opens his eyes and looks up at him. His gaze seems unfocused at first, then he squints at him and, finally, he smiles.

"You're alright," he murmurs.

"Fool," Blackquill breathes, and Fool Bright gives a choking noise that might be an attempt at a chuckle. It makes something in Blackquill's chest ache.

"That... that is my name, I guess."

"You _dotard_. What have I ever said or done to indicate had any wish to be in your debt?"

Another smile, a line of blood coming out of the corner of his mouth and down his chin. "But you're not, sir. We're... we're far from even."

"Prosecutor Blackquill!"

A shadow falls over them, and Blackquill looks up. Detective Gumshoe is standing before them, hair disheveled and breathing heavy, a taser still in his hand; a few steps behind him, the man who tried to shoot him lies unconscious and handcuffed on the ground.

Good. Blackquill looks forward to introducing him to his blade.

"Call an ambulance," Blackquill says, his voice firmer than he'd have expected it to sound. "Now. Then take that man in custody and don't let him out of your sight for a minute. Don't let anyone else in charge of watching him. Am I clear?"

Detective Gumshoe looks down at Fool Bright, who from his part shuts his eyes and turns away, hiding his face against Blackquill's coat.

"Sir, he-"

"Everything he did today was by my order," Blackquill cuts him off, causing Gumshoe to blink. "I'll explain everything in due time. Now _call an ambulance_."

He does, thankfully, before Blackquill snaps and cuts him down. As he steps away and pulls out a cell phone to call for an ambulance Blackquill looks back down at Fool Bright. With his eyes shut he looks everything like a corpse, and the pool of dark blood widening beneath them is enough to bring Blackquill's mind back by nine years, to the day he walked in his mentor's office to be greeted by a very similar sight.

He knew then, even before before lifting his eyes to see the corpse, that his mentor was gone. And he knows now that Fool Bright isn't long for this world, either.

_Would you let him live like that, Blackquill? A weak and broken thing that may as well think he's one of the rats he used to hunt? Or would you put him out of his misery? _

_He is not weak. Not anymore._

"... Fool Bright," he calls out quietly. With a trembling breath, he opens his eyes again to look up at him. A hand reaches up to grasp Blackquill's coat, and he finds himself grasping it with his free one, holding tight.

"Sir?"

"An ambulance is coming. Stay with me," he says. The words sound empty to his own ears. Fool Bright doesn't even have enough strength left to grip his hand back.

Fool Bright nods. His skin is pale as wax, and the blood coming out of his mouth seems almost black by contrast. "Of course. I... I've got to explain Miss Cykes and Justice everything. Got to... to apologize. I'm just... I'm really _tired_, sir."

_You're not tired. You're dying_.

The ache in his chest turning into something else - the painful, tight grip of grief - Blackquill nods. "... Rest, then. I'll explain everything to the others. You have nothing to concern yourself about," he says, and ignores the lump in his throat, ignores the strain he can't quite keep out of his voice.

"You... heh... won't get mad if I use you as a pillow again, just... just for a little while?" Fool Bright asks somewhat sheepishly, and Blackquill shakes his head.

"No. I will not," is the answer, then, "Detective Fulbright would be ridiculously proud of you now," he adds, and in that one moment he truly feels like there is no higher praise he could possibly bestow upon anyone.

Fool Bright looks up at him, surprise plain on his face, then he smiles. It's dazed and distant, so very unlike _Fulbright's, _but it's still a smile. Blackquill finds himself holding him tighter, as though it could do anything to keep him _there_, to hold onto his soul as he's holding onto his body.

"... Thank you, prosecutor Blackquill. I'll... I'll try to help more, when I get better," he says. He seems unaware of the blood trickling down from the corner of his mouth, unaware that his time in this world is measured in minutes, perhaps seconds.

"Of course you will," Blackquill says. "We'll finish what we started."

The grip on Blackquill's hand tightens for just a moment. "Of course," he repeats. "In... In justice we trust," he adds, and it's the last thing he'll ever say. Something in his eyes dims, and the smile grows weaker, although it doesn't entirely leave his face. He leans his head against Blackquill's shoulder and closes his eyes.

Fool Bright's last breath is the content sigh of a man coming home after a long journey.

* * *

Listening to the grief in Simon's heart is like listening to one long, continuous scream.

There are pain and regret, fury and guilt, barely mitigated by some measure of pride when he told her how the Phantom - _Fool Bright, that's how Simon still calls him_ \- shielded him with his own body. Detective Fulbright would be proud, Athena knows, and so is Simon.

"He died a man," was all Simon could manage to tell her when she was finally filled in with what happened and made it to him. He was still covered with blood, some distance away from where the body lay, covered by a white sheet that was quickly turning red. Later, Detective Gumshoe would tell her that it took some time for the ambulance's staff to make him let go of the body.

He was in shock, she could tell, and he looked so _young_ all of a sudden, like he had been when her mother had been murdered. Athena had thrown her arms around him and held tight, uncaring of the blood, and Simon had held her back. He had said nothing, he didn't need to: his heart screamed his grief clearly enough.

Even now, after three days, the agony is still there - dulled to something more bearable, but _there_. Athena can hear it clearly as they stand before a grave that has no name on it - only an identification number the police assigned to him, and a date of death.

It is a painful reminder of the fact they know next to nothing about whoever he used to _be_ before he became trapped in Bobby Fulbright's role. It's not too distant from Fulbright's own grave, either. A coincidence, and a sad one at that.

"Thank you for coming," Simon finally speaks, breaking the silence. It is a cold day, gray and windy, and it rained all morning. It is horribly fitting.

"... I had to," Athena says, and reaches to take his hand, giving it a squeeze. His fingers are cold and limp. "I... I'm really sorry. If only we didn't let him trick us so easily, we could have stopped him. He'd have never made it there, and-"

Simon's hand finally squeezes back her own, causing her to trail off. "Do not blame yourself. He may have been a dolt, but he received training. Neither you nor Justice had a chance to keep him from doing as I said. The blame is mine. I made that phone call."

"You had no choice."

"I did. I _chose_ whose life I would put in danger," Simon says, his gaze dark and fixed on the grave. "Was it the right choice? I believe it was. I know that so did he; had the Chief Prosecutor or I died that day, I am certain he would have blamed himself for the rest of his life. But it is still a _choice _I made, and it will remain mine to live with."

Athena nods, and for a time neither of them says anything. Then, as some rain begins to fall again, Simon lets go of her hand. He stares at the grave for several long moments, lowering his head in what looks like a bow, and finally turns.

"... It is high time I go back. The squealing rat who attempted to shoot me in the back should be ready for interrogation now," he says, a coldness in his voice that tells her clearly that he'll have no mercy on him, that he'll stop at nothing to have answers.

"Right. I'll... call you one of these days, alright? We never got to finish those noodles," Athena says, and Simon smiles. It's tired and slightly forced, but still a smile.

"I do look forward to it," is all he says, and he walks away without another word.

Athena watches his retreating back for several moments, listens to the voice of his heart growing weaker and weaker the farther away he walks, and the anger in it tells her clearly that the man he's set to interrogate will remember this day for however long he'll live. She knows that Simon is determined to make justice, to utterly destroy the organization the Phantom worked for, more now than ever. He owes it to too many people - to her mother and himself, to Clay Terran, to Detective Fulbright.

He owes it to the man he still refers to as _Fool Bright_, too. He promised him he'd end what they started, she knows; if not aloud, she's certain he did as much in his heart.

And Simon Blackquill never goes back on a promise.

With a long sigh, Athena turns back to the nameless grave and gives a weak smile. She reaches up for a salute and speaks softly, her voice barely audible to her own ears.

"In justice we trust."

* * *

_A/N: *insert overall apology to the universe here*  
Also, thanks a lot to everyone who read and reviewed this. Hope you enjoyed the read!_

_(If anyone needs me, I'll be in my bunker for a while.)_


End file.
